Mean
by Lampito
Summary: Dean is the Living Sex God (just ask, he'll tell you). He's an attractive man (false modesty sucks) who knows how to use what he's got to get what he wants. He has no shame, no discretion, and no interest in the nuances of advanced statistical analysis theory. Is a monster targeting hot guys? If so, Dean is a sure to be target, right, being so much above average. Right? Right?
1. Chapter 1

Greetings once more, Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers-In to the Jimiverse!

The plot bunny pen here has been empty for quite some time – I was thinking that somebody must finally have engineered a strain of myxomatosis that kills the damned things off, but this morning as I was contemplating yet another thrilling and rewarding few hours resurrecting an expensive piece of equipment after somebody else stuffed it up and walked away without saying anything, out of the reading chamber popped a little plot bunny!

(That might've been the problem in the first place, if it's been sitting in there, nice and warm, waiting to mature a bit, it could've left fur in the works and gummed up the tip rack tray belts. Or it could be that one of my colleagues is just a jerk.)

However, it does mean that, for the first time in a long time, we have a plot bunny, and therefore… A Possible Story!

So far the little… darling has only dictated an opening chapter and outlined the barest possibility for a plot, but as usual, when this happens, we'll give it an airing, and see if we can work out the plot bunny's name, and encourage it to dictate further chapters.

For now, this one has the running title (subject to change without notice depending on where it goes) of…

 **Title:** Mean

 **Rating:** T. Because Dean. And words. And Dean words.

 **Blame:** Lies with whomever left that plot bunny where I could find it.

 **Disclaimer:** They're not mine. I couldn't possibly afford the feed bills.

* * *

 **MEAN**

 **Chapter One**

If Dean's talent for pattern recognition hadn't spotted the job in Berkley, California, then Sam would've, eventually. He would've shuddered as he did so, but he'd have done it.

(In fact, when they finally figured out what was happening to the diffuse and apparently unremarkable or unconnected group of young men who were turning up unexpectedly dead, suicidal or completely mentally deranged, not only did he shudder, but his eye twitched, and he began to gibber.)

"It's could be a cluster," Dean declared, sorting through a pile of newspaper clippings then frowning at the scuffed map and making some more marks, "Make with the laptop dancing, Samantha, what can you find about these ones?" He flapped a hand theatrically, and got up to get another beer. "And put that thing on a low heat setting, the aircon in this dump is struggling as it is – it sounds like a couple of mechanical weasels are having hate-filled break-up sex in there after a game of naked Twister turned nasty."

"I'm on it," Sam muttered, rolling his eyes at the way his brother could even manage to work some reference to sex into a description of a poorly maintained air conditioner. Without even looking he putting out a hand to catch the beer his brother threw to him, as he cross-checked, searched and stacked windows on the screen.

"We'll need more beer, soon," Dean declared, standing in front of the struggling cooler and flapping his shirt up and down. "For personal cooling purposes. Or more beach. Or, more beer and beach."

"Since when did you decide you liked the beach so much?" asked Sam.

"Since the bikinis began their annual migration, bro!" Dean grinned cheerfully. "Hey, maybe while we're here, I could enrol, you know, do an AP post-grad degree or something."

"Huh? In what?" Sam demanded.

"Well, in the behaviour of the bikini in the wild, obviously," Dean went on. "You know, like, how do all the bikinis suddenly decide all at once that it's time to throw off their winter coats and migrate to the beaches?"

"It's probably got something to do with the climate," Sam observed sourly.

"Yeah, but, has anybody ever done any systematic survey?" Dean queried earnestly. "I mean, exactly what temperature does it have to be? What do we really know about 'em? I could study stuff about their life cycle, their behaviours, their dietary behaviours, their mating behaviours, oh yeah, I could do a whole research project on mating behaviours of the wild bikini, or more specifically, the women they ride around on…"

"Much as I hate to bust the bubble of your budding academic career, Mr GED," Sam cut in, "I feel compelled to point out that you can't do a post-grad until you've done an undergrad."

"Hey, I got a whole lifetime of experience in fieldwork for bikini research!" Dean protested, "I should get recognition for prior learning! It's a thing," he added a little defensively.

"Fine, fine," Sam muttered, giving his big brother a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "Once we've worked out if this is a job and taken care of it if need be, we'll go enrol you in the School of Unashamedly Lewd Anthropology. I can't wait to attend your confirmation of candidature symposium, should be a real hoot."

"Might inspire some dusty old academics to get out of the library and into the sunshine," Dean's eyebrows did one of their Olympic standard lewd insinuation routines (complete with two-and-a-half waggles and cocked finish in the provocative position, degree of difficulty 2.7).

"Well, if I can tear your mind away from bikinis for just a minute, here are three of the guys who turned up dead." He turned the laptop around to show Dean, who hummed thoughtfully as he contemplated the photos. "Two connected to Cal, one by study, one by employment, the other one a qualified carpenter. Ages from mid-twenties to mid-thirties, one's a local, two originally from interstate, different states, one had a record, misdemeanour as a minor, one had a sprained wrist in a cast, one was an orphan, they've got no obvious connection with each other…"

"Sure they do, Sammy," Dean corrected, "They're all hot."

Sam's eyes bugged. "They're WHAT?"

"Not to me, bitch," Dean scowled, "But these guys, something they have in common, to women, they would all count as hot." He drew himself up with considerable dignity. "Not as hot as me, obviously, it's not possible for any ordinary man to be as hot as the Living Sex God, but I am secure enough in my masculinity to recognise and acknowledge that these guys, they'd all pick up with no trouble on a Saturday night. Look." He indicated the photos as Sam eyed him dubiously. "They've all got at least a decent build, somewhere from better-than-average to decidedly buff, handsome face, buff plus handsome equals hot." He smiled winningly. "I been doin' fieldwork in that equation for years, Sammy, trust me on this one."

"Okaaaaay," Sam didn't sound completely convinced, "So, if this is a case for us, it could be some fugly, roaming around, targeting attractive men. Why?"

"Jealousy?" suggested Dean. "I see that often enough. It never fails to amaze me, I go to a bar, I meet a lady of a frisky nature, I have a drink with a lady of a frisky nature, said lady of a frisky nature agrees to some informed and consenting beautiful natural acts with me, and the next thing you know, there's some sore loser who was not chosen by the lady of a frisky nature for beautiful natural acts who decides he wants to punch my face in."

Sam gazed levelly at his brother, giving him a full metal jacketed Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). "I beg to correct you, Dean – I can tell you for a fact that sometimes it's not just the sore losers missing out on the frisky women who want to punch you in the face."

"Don't hate me because I'm a chick magnet, Sammy," Dean sighed wistfully.

"I don't – I hate you because you're a relentlessly lecherous asshole who won't shut up about being a lecherous asshole," Sam grumbled, turning the laptop back towards himself. "Also your dietary habits are appalling, you chew with your mouth open and you use my shower stuff all the time, jerk."

"You'd complain more if I didn't wash," Dean shrugged, turning his attention back to the map. "See if you can find pictures of more of the guys who could be involved – this one, this one, and this one, for starters."

They worked under the noisy aircon until Sam had gotten as far as he could online without waiting for some requested documents. "Well, I think that's it for today," he sighed, sitting back and stretching.

"Definitely," Dean agreed, "We've run out of beer."

"Well, I did mean that I can't do much more online," Sam yawned, then he stood up and stretched again, twisting his back and shoulders.

"We should go find food, and a bar," Dean decided, "After we spend some time at the beach."

"What? Why do we have to go to the beach?"

"Well, you need some UV radiation, obviously."

"What?"

"Look at you, standin' there, tryin' to turn towards the sun. It's not good for a guy like you to be cooped up inside, Sam."

"A guy like… Dean, what the fuck are you talking about?"

"Well, obviously, it's all that plant matter you eat – we gotta get you outside so you can, you know, photosynthesize."

"Dean, human beings do NOT photosynthesize! They don't have chloroplasts!"

"Yeah, but you aint a human being, you're a Long-Haired Bitchfaced Vegiesaurus."

"Jerk."

* * *

Reviews encourage the plot bunny to dictate further chapters! (Any ideas on its name yet?)


	2. Chapter 2

*looks carefully around door* That Christmas thing, is it over? Oh, thank dog for that...

I can offer no excuse for the inactivity on this story: Real Life got its teeth into my leg, then Christmas was perpetrated with extreme prejudice (next year, I'm doing Festivus) and the bunny, whose name has not been settled yet (Beauregard has a certain appeal, since it's a story about hot guys, but Ponty-Max sounds delightfully bouncy) took one look at the end of year shenanigans and hid under the couch for several weeks. But I hear a timid little voice whispering from amongst the cushions, so let's continue, and see if we can get something approaching a story...

* * *

 **Chapter Two**

Although there was nothing ordinary about the Winchesters and the way they lived, sometimes they did like to enjoy ordinary simple things, just like other people. Sitting on the car, watching the stars, was one thing. And if a job took them to the coast at the right time of the year, sitting on the beach, enjoying the weather and the scenery, was another.

Jimi Junior the half-Hellhound/half-Rottweiler particularly loved the beach: there was water to paddle in, sand to dig in, seaweed to snuffle in, maybe even something dead at the tide line to roll in. There were new people to meet, and if he approached them with a wagging tail and a wistful expression they were often happy to throw his frisbee (or, if they were kids, maybe even his dead jellyfish).

Dean laughed as Jimi suddenly lost interest in whatever he was digging out of the sand and took off chasing a seagull. "That never gets old," he chortled, sitting down on his towel, "Do you remember that time he caught one? Watching him chase after things that can fly, it's hilarious!"

"Oh, yeah, hilarious," Sam muttered, eyes on his phone screen. "That time we were at the beach and he caught a hang-glider, that was just totally hilarious, that was. Almost as funny as the time he plucked a kite surfer out of the air, I'll bet that guy didn't stop laughing for a week…"

Dean sighed at his brother. "There's somethin' wrong with you," he declared, "We got more important things to do than that. Here."

"Like what?" asked Sam, not lifting his eyes from the screen, "I'm trying to… yerg!"

Sam let out a strangle squawk as an ice-cream cone was thrust at him.

He looked up at his brother. "Dean, what the fuck?"

"We're at the beach," Dean smiled sunnily, and took a lick of his own ice-cream. "At the beach, you do beach things. Like sit on a towel, and dig your toes in the sand, and eat ice cream."

Sam sighed, and inspected the cone.

"I got you yoghurt," Dean went on. "It's low fat, dolphin safe, bycatch free, it's probably safe to feed to baby vegan whales."

"We should be trying to make inroads with the research," Sam grumbled, nonetheless taking a lick of his cone. "I found details for two more of those guys – both dead, and both, well, aesthetically pleasing to women, I guess."

"We can do research," Dean insisted, leaning back on his elbows.

"Okay, so," Sam huffed, "I'm just checking to see if any more of those documents I've requested have…"

"Not that research," Dean scoffed, "Bikini research!"

"Oh, God," groaned Sam, the _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) barely muted by his sunglasses.

"Now, down by the water, there," Dean began, "We see a wonderful example of the Well-Filled Bikini, easily recognisable by the tautness of its hide as it covers the figure beneath it…"

"Dean…"

"And if you look to your left, you will see a fine specimen of the Double-Fronted Strapless Bikini, known for its spectacular mating display rather than its activity, because if it moves around too much it can lose its grip on its tenuous footings…"

"Dean…"

"Aaaaaand if you look to your right, you will see one of those rare creatures, the Dental-Flossed Postage Stamp Bikini, so named because of its small size and uncanny resemblance to…"

"DEAN!" Sam snapped, "Will you stop going on about women in bikinis?!"

"I don't know where I went wrong with you," Dean sighed sadly. Jimi returned, and flopped down on the sand next to him with a contented humph, turning the Big Brown Eyes all the way up to eleven in the hope of getting some ice cream. Dean smiled, and scratched the dog's ears. "Now Jimi here, he's got the right idea. He's makin' friends with the ladies… Howdy." By way of demonstration, Jimi offered a big doggy smile and a tail wag to the two bathing-suited young ladies who walked past – they giggled to each other as Dean offered them a barely attenuated version of The Killer Smile and a drawled greeting.

"Jimi makes friends with everybody," Sam countered, "It's just what he does. And stop doing that!"

"Doing what?"

"That! That! You're licking your ice cream at women!"

"No I'm not, I'm just sitting here, enjoyin' the ambiance, and cooling off eating a nice cold treat."

"Well, don't do it so… lewdly!"

"The Living Sex God cannot help it if everything he does is just inherently hot," Dean shrugged. "You, on the other hand, you're being positively anti-social."

"Look, just because I don't ogle every woman in a bathing suit who walks past within a one hundred foot radius does not make me anti-social!"

"I don't expect you to check out _every_ woman," Dean tutted, "I'm not completely unreasonable. Only the ones that are, you know, checkoutable…."

"You're as shallow as a bird bath after an ostrich has sat in it," Sam muttered.

"…And I'm not sayin' that you should make friends with _everybody_ , all I'm asking is that you maybe make friends with one, a hot one, obviously, and you only have to be friends for an evening, just long enough for some beautiful natural acts…"

"I take that back," Sam announced. You are not as shallow as a bird bath after an ostrich has sat in it. That ostrich-emptied bird bath is deeper than you."

"I'm just looking out for your well-being, baby bro," Dean grinned. "You need to get laid, Sam."

"What I need is for you to stop doing that with your ice cream," Sam griped, "And I need to figure out if this is a job for us. So if it is, we can figure out what it is, then we can gank it, and we can get out of Bikiniland and I won't have to listen to you talk so much shit. Or watch you doing that."

"Bikiniland is not a location, Sam, it's a state of mind," Dean sighed happily, taking another slurp.

"Very Zen," Sam snarked sourly. "So, whenever I hassle you to take some down time, just rest and recover, you're all, hey, we can't stop, Sammy, there's the family business to run, things to Hunt, people to save, but there might be a job here in sunny Cali, and suddenly you find the beach bum within?"

"Well, it's all about time, and place," Dean replied. "You want to take time out in the middle of winter to check out museums and galleries and stuff. You shoulda found us a job in Bikiniland earlier."

"I give up," Sam moaned, putting his phone away, then digging his bare toes into the sand, determined not to let his brother know how much he was kind of enjoying just sitting on the beach, watching the waves and the sky. And yeah, maybe the odd bikini. "So, if it is some fugly attacking hot guys, what might it be?"

"A couple gone completely nuts, but mostly dead," Dean mused. "Succubus, maybe?"

"Not enough murdering afterwards," Sam replied. :"Dropping dead, yes, but homicide, no."

"Asshole demon, Topside and on a working vacation, killing for the hell of it?"

"I see what you did there," Sam rolled his eyes again. "Nope, this feels… not untidy enough for a demon."

"Djinn?"

"Possible – doesn't explain the hot guys thing, though."

"Choosy djinn?"

"Djinns aren't so choosy about what a victim looks like, they just want blood – or fear – to feed on."

"Oh, look, I think maybe a mermaid has just wandered right outta the sea."

"That's hardly likely," Sam snorted, "Mermaids are like aquatic succubi, traditionally luring sailors to their doom, and they'd have tails anyway and would hardly wander anywhere on dry land…"

His voice petered out as he looked up; Dean and Jimi were offering happy smiles to yet another young lady making her way up the beach.

"Dean!" he hissed once she was past, giving his brother a hefty Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). Will you stop ogling women, and pay attention!"

"Oh, I'm payin' attention, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Nothin' but beach babes as far as the eye can see, I tell ya, I'm payin' attention."

"Well, I'm clearly not going to get any sensible discussion out of you for the rest of the day," Sam huffed.

"If you wanna talk about bikinis, I'm up for it," Dean's eyebrows indicated that he was ready to deliver the lecture or take notes, whatever Sam preferred.

"What I want to talk about is this job!" snapped Sam. "Look, I think that if we can work out why it's choosing the guys it is, that might help us figure out what it is."

"Okay," Dean frowned. "So, why were they killed? Was that the intention, or a side-effect? What did it want from 'em? Did it want to feed? Did it want attention? What did they have that it wanted?"

"Good questions," Sam mused. "I'll see if I can get a peek at some coroner's reports, see if there was any tissue missing or damaged, blood, organs…"

"We got one weapon that'll work, whatever it is," Dean's irrepressibly irritating grin resurfaced, "All we gotta do is trawl my awesomeness around, and the Living Sex God will bring it out to play."

"Yeah, right," Sam rolled his eyes. "So long as it's not a wraith."

"No problem there, Sammy, if it's a wraith, I can gank it, and not even have to put down my beer."

"I don't doubt your ability to kill it, Dean – I doubt your ability to lure it into the open."

"Hey, if it's something going after hot guys…"

"It may be, but since you clearly don't have a brain it won't be interested."

"Bitch."

"Jerk. AND STOP DOING THAT!"

"Rowf!"

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Later that even, Sam regretted suggesting that they hang around a bar that was clearly a favoured venue for students and faculty to see if they could pick up on any further intel – it was a regular haunt for at least two of the guys who'd turned up dead, and seemed like a good place to start.

He wasn't sure what was worst, watching his big brother trawling for female company because he was on the Hunt and looking to attract a monster, or watching his big brother trawling for female company because he was an incessantly horny individual who had raised casual hook-ups to an art form.

"You lay it on any thicker, you'll need a trowel," growled Sam as his brother winked at yet another attractive woman.

"I can't help it if I have an irresistible animal magnetism," Dean complained, helping himself to another handful of peanuts.

"Well, you've certainly never tried to do anything about your animal eating habits," Sam griped. "I dunno, I'm not picking up any, you know, evil shit vibes."

"Neither am I," agreed Dean, making eyes at yet another woman, "But I'm prepared to sit here for a while yet, just in case."

"Jerk," Sam muttered. "It's a shame we can't bring Jimi in here, his nose for evil shit is never wrong."

"We could put his work harness on, and tell everybody he's your service dog," Dean suggested, "We can say, he's an emotional support dog, specially trained to help a long-haired emo cope with everyday life situations – at the first sign of you going into a meltdown because your lettuce leaf is from the wrong end of the vegetable patch, he's trained to distract you before you start bitchfacing in public…"

"Ha frigging ha," snarked Sam. "God, you're such a man-slut, you must've made eyes at every woman in here except the bartender."

"She's not hot," Dean waved a hand airily in the direction of the bar. A bespectacled woman, quite ordinary and unremarkable, was collecting glasses. "She looks like she'd rather be reading books."

"Well, she might," Sam pointed out, "This is a university town, Dean – she's probably a student, or junior faculty without tenure, making a bit of extra cash, especially if the semester is ended and the tutoring is drying up. And it's a busy job on a Friday night. Given a choice, I'd rather be reading a book."

"Yeah, but we know you aint normal," Dean grinned, and made eye contact with a buxom and leggy brunette sitting at the bar. "Stay put, I got a feeling about this one."

"What?" Sam was instantly on the alert. "What, is she givin' you weird shit vibes?"

"Not weird, no," Dean let the Killer Smile slide onto his face in all its smouldering glory, "Well, you might say 'weird', I'd go with 'kinky', don't worry, we'll go back to her place, don't wait up…"

"Gah!" Sam let out a yap of disgust as The Living Sex God threw him the car keys and a cocky smirk, then sauntered across the room like he owned the place.

At the bar, the woman behind it put down the tray of glasses she'd collected and offered him a bright smile as he ordered a drink. "Hi there, you're back again!" she said.

"Yup," he agreed, eyes sliding sideways, "Just hangin' around, enjoyin' the scenery."

"Oh, are you from out of town?" she continued.

"As it happens, yeah," Dean replied, the Smile briefly dialled down to Interaction With A Member Of The General Public Who Is Not A Hot Frisky Woman With Whom I Intend To Propose Beautiful Natural Acts.

"Thought so," she commented. "I didn't recognise you. I'm pretty sure I'd have noticed you before now if you'd come in before." She smiled again.

"Nature of my job, I go where I'm needed," he shrugged, his eyes sliding sideways.

"Oh, you're here for work?" she asked brightly.

"Yeah," he replied distractedly as the brunette smilled at him, "Just passing through."

"All alone on a Friday night, huh?" she said sympathetically.

"For now," he replied, taking his beer and watching as the brunette removed the swizzle stick from her gaudy drink and carefully extracted a piece of fruit between glossy red lips. "Excuse me." He paid for his drink, turned to watch the object of his libido, and ratcheted up the Smile several degrees on the LivingSexGodometer.

Sam watched in resigned disgust, or disgusted resignation, as his brother engaged the object of his intent in conversation. _I can smell the testosterone from here_ , he groused to himself as Dean left the bar with her, _I should put a collar and lead on him._ _No, wait, the jerk would probably just make some completely inappropriate comment._ Shortly afterwards, he left too, and headed back to their cruddy room, where he tried to do a bit more research, then prepared for bed.

"Your Alpha is a total man-whore," he griped to Jimi as he shook the dog's blanket out. Jimi humphed, either in agreement or commiseration, as he settled for the night.

It could be worse, he reflected as he climbed into his own bed, at least I don't have to sleep in the car to get away from the noise of Dean entertaining a brand new special best lady friend. Although I will still have to listen to the play-by-play Chick I Have Banged story before the end of the week.

If it got really bad, he decided, he would take revenge: he'd take Dean's phone and message the next woman his brother arranged to hook up with. **SO SORRY, I REALISE NOW THAT I CAN'T CHEAT ON MY BOYFRIEND LIKE THIS, I HOPE YOU UNDERSTAND.**

Said man-whore returned to the room some hours later, doing the Strut Of Smug Self-Satisfaction (because Dean Winchester had never done a Walk Of Shame in his entire life). Sam and Jimi barely half-woke; Sam mumbled something containing the word 'Jerk', and he was sure he could hear Dean grinning in the dark as he undressed and got into his own bed, with a cocky imprecation "Go back to sleep, Princess Samantha."

Silence descended, broken only by the occasional snore and the gentle waft of lavender scented half-Hellhound farting…

Dean was first up the next morning, calling first on the bathroom before Sam had even extricated himself from the bedclothes. He yawned and stretched, looking down at Jimi, who also yawned and stretched. "You know," Sam said to the dog, "I'd swear, the older he gets, the more unbearably smug he becomes afterwards…"

If he had anything more to say, he didn't get to finish the sentence: he was cut off by the scream from the bathroom.

"Dean!"

Gun in hand, Jimi on his heels, he ran for the door and burst through it.

* * *

Gasp! Where is this uncooperative little plot bunny headed? (Besides back under the couch, I mean). What goeth on in the bathroom? Run little Beau-Ponty, run!


	3. Chapter 3

Ooooh, look at this, the plot bunny is whispering again. It must be the delicious reviews you fed him. Yay Beau-Ponty! Gooooo bunny!

* * *

 **Chapter Three**

Sam was no stranger to responding to a brotherly S.O.S.; Dean's Batman complex meant that he would never say it out loud, but in his heart of hearts he would have to admit that very occasionally, in dire circumstances, in extremis, in the most desperate of situations, the caped crusader might possibly need some help from Robin, if it was a matter of life or death. Maybe.

Of course, what exactly constituted dire circumstances requiring a priority one immediate response from his baby bro might not always be something that the Boy Wonder agreed with…

Being jumped by a nest of vampires, yes.

Being jumped by an overly friendly Pomeranian with semi-automatic tongue action, no.

Being attacked by an alpha male werewolf at the full moon, yes.

Being smacked with a spatula by a cranky alpha female werewolf because he poked his fingers into a tray of brownie mix before it went into the oven, possibly not.

Discovering that the cave they were checking was occupied by a Black Dog, yes.

Discovering a pimple on his neck, not so much.

Running out of salt and holy water in the middle of bailing up a demon, definitely.

Running out of beer and doughnuts in the middle of a movie, definitely not.

Tearing a calf muscle while making a fast getaway from a raging daeva, yes.

Tearing the seat out of his pants whilst climbing a fence: I'm not your damned wardrobe valet, for fuck's sake, call Alfred.

Nonetheless, there was no way that Sam could know exactly what the circumstances were until he'd seen for himself; this time, the same as every time, he sprang into action, intent on saving Dean's skin. Or possibly just what passed for his dignity.

So, gun in hand, Jimi right behind him, he burst through the bathroom door, ready for anything, no matter how strange.

"Dean!"

As the door flew open, what he saw was definitely strange.

As in, what he saw was not expected, and not familiar.

But Sam was a Hunter – he kept his gun trained on the man who stood gawping at the speckled mirror.

"Dean!" he called his brother again, not taking his eyes off the intruder. "Dean! Hey. Hey! Who the fuck are you? Where's my brother? _Dean_!"

The guy slowly turned around, moving as if he were dazed, and raised his eyes to Sam, who just glared back at him, weapon steady. "S-Sam?" he stammered.

"Where – is – my – brother?" Sam repeated, menace dripping from every syllable, "And how the fuck do you know my…"

"Rumph!"

Jimi broke the tension by shouldering past Sam and into the small room, where he trotted up to the guy and nosed his head under the man's hand, grinning doggily and wagging his tail as he solicited attention.

Sam blinked; Jimi was a friendly dog who liked to acquaint himself with new humans, but he also unerringly had what Dean referred to as a nose for evil shit: if anyone or anything approached the Winchesters with dishonest, malevolent or murderous intent, he turned into a slavering monster, intent on protecting his pack.

Given that they stayed in cheap and crappy accommodation, it was inevitable that from time to time they would have break-ins, petty thieves intent on an easy job – watching Jimi stalk out of the shadows, growling like a grumpy earthquake, and chase the would-be burglar up the nearest piece of furniture was one of the few amusements that their life had to offer.

By rights, this guy should now be perched perilously atop the rickety shower screen, pleading tearfully not be eaten.

Instead, he looked down at the dog, and scratched absently at Jimi's ears. "Hey, J-Man," he murmured distractedly, before looking back up at Sam with bewildered green eyes.

Green eyes.

Below untidy dark blonde hair.

In a face that, due to recent sun exposure, was starting to show a smattering of freckles.

Slowly, Sam lowered his gun, his face taking on the same stunned expression as the man before him.

"… _Dean?"_

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"It's me, Jim, but not as we know it." The voice that spoke – then let out a little giggle that might well have graduated to 'gibber' if it had gone on any longer – was higher pitched than his brother's, but the accent, cadence and content were unmistakably pure Dean.

"Uh, yeah," agreed Sam, staring at the guy sitting on the bed. His brother. Dean.

Only… not.

After the initial shock, he'd stopped gawping, and looked, really looked, like a Hunter seeking details and filing away information for later reference and collation.

The guy – _Dean_ _, it was_ _Dean_ , he told himself sternly – would not set alarm bells ringing for even the most paranoid conspiracy theorist, because he was completely normal-looking.

And it _was_ Dean. He could see the features that made his brother himself, but they were… dampened. His cheekbones were not so high, his features and jaw were less defined, his eyelashes were definitely shorter, his lips were not so sinfully full, but he was still Dean.

"So, er, you still more or less look like you," he ventured tentatively. "Seriously, I can recognise you as you."

"Except I'm not," his brother pointed out, standing up and observing himself despairingly in the room's cracked dresser mirror.

"Well, er, no," Sam had to agree. "You're, uh, I'd estimate you're about five-nine, maybe five-ten, and your ctual frame's a bit smaller, but you're maybe, maybe…"

"Make it about 200, 210," Dean sighed, prodding unhappily at his waist, where there was an unfamiliar bulge. He was wearing sweats after discovering that none of his pants would fit him. Frowning, he peered at himself critically. "Jesus, what the hell happened to my hair?"

"It's still there," Sam reassured him. "Mostly."

"It's going grey!"

"Only on the sides."

"And what the fuck is that on my face?"

"Your nose, bro."

"No, bitch, that!" He leaned in towards the glass, indicating a mark. "What the fuck is that?"

"Let me see… uh, it just looks like an acne scar. Or maybe it's from chicken pox. You can hardly see it. Nothing to worry about."

"Nothing to worry about." Dean sat down heavily on his bed again. "Right. Right. Nothing to worry about. Absolutely nothing to worry about. I've woken up shorter, fatter, with thinning and greying hair and a fucking crater in my face, a fucking _acne scar_ on my fucking _face_ , which looks like it's been nipped and tucked by a plastic surgeon who played too much Sims as an intern, but there's nothing to worry about, no sirree, nothing to worry about here, people, just move along…"

"Dean," Sam tried to keep the fulminating _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) off his face. "I can understand that you're unhappy…"

"Oh, I aint unhappy, Sam," the Deanesque growl was completely authentic, "Unhappy don't begin to describe what I am right now."

"Okay, okay, I understand that you'd be fucking angry about now," Sam amended, "But I think it's important not to over-react, let's just concentrate on fi-"

"Over-react?" echoed Dean, "Over-react? You think I'm over-reacting? Some asshole fugly has clearly cast a spell or put a curse on me, I wake up looking like _this_ , and you accuse me of o _ver-reacting_?"

"For fuck's sake, Dean, you've had worse!" Sam snapped in exasperation. "You're not injured, you're not sick, you're not in imminent danger of death! Yeah, somebody has obviously laid the whammo on you, but, really, you look completely human! You don't look like there's anything wrong with you! Nobody will run screaming if they see you in the street, you look completely ordinary, completely unremarkable, completely typical, completely regular, you're unexceptional, just an average guy!"

"Yeah," Dean gazed sadly into the mirror, "That's me. Just an average guy." He turned mournful eyes to Sam with an expression reminiscent of Jimi when told that there was no more bacon.

"Yeah, so…" Sam paused, and regarded his brother carefully.

An average guy. Dean was, almost by definition, a walking, talking example of The Average Guy. Mr Average made incarnate.

And definitely no longer the Living Sex God.

Understanding dawned, and he tried not to sigh too obviously.

"Okay, look, clearly this is a spell of some sort and we have to work out how to undo it as soon as possible…"

"Damned straight," agreed Dean immediately.

"But what I'm trying to say is, we should at least be grateful that it won't stop you Hunting. You might look a bit different on the outside…"

"A bit? Ha!"

"…But on the inside, you're still Dean Winchester, the best Hunter in the country, if not the Northern Hemisphere," Sam finished, feeling that a judicious dollop of hyperbole might be warranted just for ego soothing reasons. "So, it's not like an injury that has you hospitalised or laid up: you can still do the job, _we_ can still do the job, find out who or what did this, and get on with working out what's targeting hot guys. The family business, bro."

"Yeah, you're right," Dean didn't make any attempt to suppress a heavy, dejected sigh. "You think this could be related to those others? Was I targeted because I'm a… well, usually, I'm a hot guy?"

"Possibly," shrugged Sam, "But you're not dead. Or gone nuts. Well, I'm assuming no more nuts than usual for you, it's too early to tell."

"Bitch," Dean scowled, reaching for the car keys, "Go do your hair, Samantha, we're going out."

"Yeah, I'm kinda hungry…"

"Breakfast can wait," Dean snapped, "First order of business is to get me some pants that fit!"

* * *

Oh dear. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear oh dear. The Living Sex God… desexed. How will he cope? What other mortifying manifestations of mediocrity will he have to suffer? Will he adjust to not being the hottest guy in the room? Will he expire from terminal mediocrity? Feed reviews to the plot bunny, and let's find out!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

The shopping run took longer than they'd anticipated, and by the time they found somewhere to have breakfast, Sam was hungry and grumpy, and Dean was hungrier and grumpier.

"When I find out who did this, I will gank 'em with nothing more than a plastic specs case and a tube of acne cream," Dean growled, peering at the menu through the glasses he was wearing. It had become clear that the glasses were necessary when, trying to read the price tags on larger pairs of pants, it had become apparent that he was also short-sighted. "Fuck," he pushed them back up his nose, "Are they intentionally designed to do this? Aren't they supposed to help you see, not drive you insane?"

"Be grateful we found a pair of non-prescription ones that were suitable," Sam cautioned, "Optometrists don't come cheap, and you'd have to wait a couple of weeks for the lenses to be made."

"This is a disaster!" Dean practically wailed.

"It's not, you know," Sam countered, getting fed up with Dean's melodramatics, "It's very common – about half the population in our age bracket wear some sort of corrective lenses at least part of the time. There's nothing weird about needing reading glasses, bro. In fact, I was wondering if I should go and have my eyes tested, because I've noticed…"

"I don't care about needing 'em to read," sighed Dean. "But couldn't they at least make 'em so the wearer doesn't look like something out of a 1960s high school anti-drug educational movie? I look like Clark Kent! Actually, no, I don't look as cool as Clark Kent, I look like Steve Urkel, only not black. I look like Bill Gates, only not rich. I look like John Oliver…"

"Only not smart and witty," Sam cut in, "And definitely not highly amusing."

"I was going to say not famous, bitch," griped Dean. "But that Limey smartass would have more hope of getting laid than me wearing these."

"News flash," humphed Sam. "Medical science has established that not having sex for more than three days is not a fatal condition."

"Lucky for them," Dean replied, "Scrawny geeks in white coats and glasses even thicker than mine, they'd die out before they ever qualified."

"Whatever," Sam gave up, not even bothering to rise to the bait of blatant stereotyping since it was clear that Satellite Dean was not in a stable orbit around Planet Rational for the time being, "Anyway, you won't need 'em for long, just until we figure out what's happened to you and undo it. Let's eat. Maybe food will settle your hormones, jerk."

Muttering darkly, Dean consulted the menu.

He brightened up considerably when their waitress arrived: she had a bright smile, legs going all the way up, and a rack he could rest his beer on. He gave her an attenuated version of the Killer Smile and a wink as she headed back to the kitchen.

"Uh, Dean, I think maybe you shouldn't do that," Sam ventured carefully, in a tone suggestive of a man trying to take a pleasant morning stroll through a mine field.

"Do what?" asked his brother, watching her go. "Oh, man, look at those legs. Look at the tops of those legs."

"The smiling thing," Sam went on doggedly. "I think maybe it might be a good idea not to do that."

"What, now it's against the law to appreciate a fine female form?" demanded Dean.

"No, I didn't say that," Sam countered hurriedly.

"Good," Dean huffed, "Because that female form, Sammy, is definitely worthy of appreciation."

"Yeah, okay, there's nothing wrong with looking, but..."

"In fact, I'm imagining those legs wrapped around my…"

"Stop! Stop right there! I have no desire to hear about any of your depraved fantasies!"

"You might learn something."

"No, Dean, what I'm getting at is…"

They were interrupted when the object of Dean's attention returned with their coffees. "Here you go," she said, putting them on the table, "Do you need any more sugar?"

"Nah, darlin'," Dean drawled, the Smile reappearing, "I'm sweet enough."

"Okay. I'll be back with your order soon." She retreated again. Dean's face rearranged itself into a frown. "Well, that's weird."

"What's weird?" asked Sam.

"Well, I usually get a smile back, and at least a little giggle," Dean went on. "Huh. She must bat for the other team. What a waste."

"Uh, I don't think that's it, Dean," Sam sighed.

"Course it is," scoffed his big brother. "I didn't pick it, though, usually my radar is totally accurate for that."

"No, really, I don't think that's the problem," Sam resumed tip-toeing through the claymores, "I think it might be to do with your… smile."

"My smile?" Dean echoed. "My smile? What's wrong with my smile? I got a killer smile, Sammy, I've been told that by a number of seriously hot chicks."

"Dean…"

"False modesty sucks, dude. My smile attracts women like honey attracts bees, like a tanning booth attracts guidos, like a cardboard cut-out of a gormless glittery vampire attracts screaming tweens."

"Yeah, okay, but…"

"My smile can make panties hit the carpet at 20 paces, bro."

"Yeah, okay," Sam agreed, nonetheless giving his brother a Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual), "You have the most come-hither smile that God ever put on the front of a male face. When you're you. When you're the original Dean Winchester, Living Sex God and Creation's gift to women. But right now…"

"What?" demanded Dean. "Right now, what?"

"Right now, you're… not," Sam finished lamely.

"Well, thanks for that, Einstein," Dean rolled his eyes. "I really needed help to work that one out."

"No, what I mean is, well, your smile, on your proper face, it's come hither, but on the one you've currently got, it's more…" Sam waved a hand uncertainly. "Not so much 'come-hither', more 'go-thither'."

"Huh?"

Sam decided on the band-aid approach. "That face doesn't do Killer Smile, bro. What it does is more Creepy-Ass Leer."

Dean stared at him as if he had just announced that he wanted to begin transitioning to live as a woman and retire to a convent where there were absolutely no hot nuns whatsoever. "What?"

"The way you ogled that waitress," Sam went on, "From a certain point of view, the way you looked at her could be regarded as, well, creepy."

"Whaddyamean, from a certain point of view?"

"Well, from her point of view, if the look on her face was anything to judge by."

Dean snorted dismissively. "Don't be ridiculous, Sammy, I'm still me on the inside. I don't ogle women."

"Yeah, you do. All the time."

"Okay, yeah, maybe I do, but I don't _ogle_ ogle them, in a creepy way, I look at them to appreciate them because they're so…"

"Ogle-able?"

"Exactly."

"Right." Sam knew defeat when it was staring at him – ogling him, even. He stirred his coffee. "So, first order of business, work out what happened to you, work out if it's connected to the other hot guys, and undo it." He looked up. "The last person you had contact with was that brunette you went home with."

"Why would she do this to me?" Dean complained. "I told her how hot she was, I showed her a good time, and she enjoyed herself, no doubt about that, judging by the noises she made when we were…"

"We may not work out the 'why' until we identify the 'who'," Sam told him, "Maybe she uses her hotness to lure hot partners. You know," he added trenchantly, "The way you do."

"Hey, if you got it, flaunt it," Dean pronounced shamelessly.

"Well here comes our food," Sam hissed, "So for now, remember that you really don't got it, so keep your flaunting to yourself."

Dean turned and was disappointed to see that the waitress approaching was not the appreciable young lady who'd taken their order, but an older one, whom Bobby would no doubt refer to as 'a fine figure of a woman'.

"Here you go boys," she smiled pleasantly, "Enjoy!"

"See?" Sam couldn't help the small note of triumph that leaked into his tone, "You scared the first one off with your creepy leering."

"I didn't leer!"

"You did."

"I didn't!"

"I'm afraid you did, bro."

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

"I didn't!"

"You did!"

Didn't!"

"Did!"

"Didn't!"

"You did so!"

"Sam, I – did – NOT – leer," growled Dean, stabbing a piece of bacon with rather more force than is usually required to subdue a run-of-the mill-rasher, "What suddenly makes you an expert on leering, anyway?"

Sam gazed at him levelly. "Dean, I once saw a leer like that on a guy who was looking at Jess," he stated, "I know a leer when I see one."

"So a guy looked at your girlfriend," Dean shrugged. "No big deal."

"To Jess, it was," Sam continued. "It made her really uncomfortable."

"Yeah, but nothing happened, right?"

"Actually, it did," Sam smiled pleasantly. "What happened was, I punched him in the face."

"Yeah?" Dean beamed. "Awesome! Then what?"

"I got a round of applause from the other women in the bar," Sam finished.

"That's my boy," Dean hummed contentedly.

Sam drooped visibly. "I'm just not getting through here, am I?" he sighed.

"Nope." Dean's grin was as infuriating as ever. "But you're used to it, so it's all good."

They discussed a plan to scope out the home of the woman Dean had bedded ("And sofa-ed. And shower-ed." _"Dean!")_ as they finished breakfast, then Dean decided that he wanted a piece of the delicious-looking pie in the cabinet.

"You want pie right after breakfast? Isn't that a bit much, even for you?"

"Any time is pie time," Dean's beaming smile was relentless. "Anyway, since we had to mess around findin' me some pants that would fit, and some glasses that would let me see, it's halfway to lunch already, so I'm just gettin' an early start."

When the older waitress returned to collect their plates, Dean smiled and asked for a piece of pie, with cream and ice cream.

She gave him a doting maternal smile. "Oh, honey, you've just had your breakfast, are you sure?"

"Yeah I'm sure," Dean replied, "It looks awesome!"

"Oh, it is," she agreed, "But, well, you know, what I tell my grandkids is, pie is a sometimes food…"

"A what?" Dean asked, incredulous.

"A sometimes food," Sam repeated, smiling serenely, "Full of refined carbs, saturated fat, and a lot of calories contained in a small serving. So, it's not something you ought to eat every day, it should be an occasional special treat."

"Exactly!" their waitress beamed. "But if you really are still hungry, Katie in the kitchen has made a beautiful fruit salad, I can recommend it, with a big dollop of yoghurt on top, it's just delicious!"

Dean stared at her as if she'd just suggested that he eat something with a liberal lacing of cyanide sauce. "Fruit salad?" he echoed in disbelief. "Are you suggesting that I eat… fruit salad!"

"It's a sensible snack, bro," Sam nodded eagerly, "Lots of fibre, and vitamins, and trace elements, delicious and good for you!" His face became serious. "You don't wanna grow out of your new pants any time soon," he added just a touch ominously. (And, in truth, just a weeny bit viciously.)

Dean's open-mouthed expression of bewilderment assumed a pout worthy of a Sam Winchester trademarked Bitchface™. "I – want – pie," he stated flatly in a calm and quiet voice that hinted it could get a whole less calm and quiet if said pastry was not put in front of him soon.

With a shrug, the waitress took his order, and he was soon stabbing his pie just as viciously as he'd attacked his helpless bacon.

"What the hell was that about?" he hissed at Sam.

"She's probably just worried about you," his baby brother shrugged. "Seeing as the body you are currently occupying looks like it likes pie just as much as you do."

"Well, of course it does," he griped, "Because it is me. Fruit salad. Huh. Maybe we should start with her, she's probably an evil witch."

"Dean, I really don't think she is," Sam sighed. "Not so tactful, perhaps, but that doesn't' make her evil. I think we should work backwards – go check out your brunette bed-buddy's place, see what we can find. If she's a witch, and we can find her grimoire and her altar, we might be able to undo this there and then."

"Good," Dean shoved another mouthful of pie into his face and continued speaking for the express purpose of annoying Sam. "And for the record, if you join in with attempting to body-shame me again, I will temporarily suspend my refusal to be in the same grid square as a single molecule of tofu, and I will stuff it into every orifice until you burst."

* * *

Poor Dean - horrificating him is just too much fun. What is Beau-Ponty up to? Feed him reviews to find out!


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

Back-tracking to the scene of Dean's most recent sexcapade ("Man, she was hot. She's probably the last hot woman I get to have sex with for a while. How am I supposed to pick up hot chicks lookin' like this?" "Dean! Shut! Up!"), they scoped out the apartment.

"Did she mention that she had to go out today, you know, go to work, or anything?"

"Yeah," Dean sighed sadly, "She said she'd love to have another round, and I'd cheerfully have obliged, she could do this thing with her…"

" _Dean!"_

"…But she had to get up early for work." He scanned the place. "Looks like she's out."

Making sure they were not observed, they made their way to the back door, taking Jimi with them, and Dean quickly had the lock surreptitiously popped.

"So, what do you see?" asked Dean, encouraging the dog to sniff around.

"Nothing at all suspicious," shrugged Sam, checking cupboards and looking in the refrigerator. "I don't see anything that has a specific purpose in laying curses – you need some pretty specific herbs. That tomato paste should probably be released back into the wild, though, before it escapes by itself."

"The nose for evil shit don't seem to be pickin' up on anything," Dean observed, steering Jimi's eager snout away from the garbage. "Except perhaps last night's take out containers."

"Well, keep looking. If she's cast a spell on you, she'll have needed something of yours – a strand of hair will do it – to put the whammo on you. It'll be on her altar."

"Would skin do it? You know, like a skin scraping?"

"Well, yeah – a nail clipping, some blood, an eyelash, even. Recently, Bobby heard about somebody stealing a buccal swab that was meant to be used for a lab class. Some physical connection with the object of the curse. It's just that hair is more traditional, because it's easy to get, you can just pull it off a comb or a brush, or even off a pillow, without the victim ever noticing or knowing."

"Then it was totally her," Dean asserted as they moved to the living room, "Because I'm pretty sure that her nails left marks on my…"

"DEAN!"

"And let's face it, if bodily fluids are sufficient, then…"

" _DEAN!"_ Sam turned a fully automatic metal jacketed turbo charged Bitchface #12™ (I Am Going To Pretend I Didn't Hear What You Just Said You Disgusting Individual) on his brother. "If you end that sentence, I will end you!"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean muttered, bending down to peer at some knick knacks carefully arranged on a shelf. "This looks kinda formal, do you think…"

They were interrupted by the sound of a key in the front lock, then Dean's most recent bedmate was unexpectedly standing in the doorway, staring at them. "What the… who the hell are you?" she demanded. "Are you assholes trying to burgle me?"

"What? No! No, no, uh, this isn't what it looks like," Sam held up his hands and tried to look as unthreatening as possible.

"Hey there Sharon," Dean drawled, "I thought I'd just drop by to pick up something I left behind – did you see where I dropped my awesomeness last night?"

"She gaped at him in bemusement. " _What_? Last night? Who the fuck are you?"

"Ah, you're the find 'em, fuck 'em and forget 'em type," Dean sighed. "Can't say I blame you. O' course, you'll find it harder to forget me after last night. The performance on the sofa was masterly, if I do say so myself."

Sharon's face became a picture of horror. "Oh – my – _God_ – were you… were you, like, _watching_ or something? Were you watching through the windows? That's disgusting!"

"No!" yelped Sam, "It's not like that…"

"So, what, now you've come to collect a souvenir of your perving?" she sounded more angry than frightened. "Oh, that's gross! That's completely gross! _You're_ completely gross!"

"Whoa, whoa, back up," Dean cut in, "That's not what you said last night…"

"You're jealous, is that it?" she raged on, "Because a girl like me wouldn't touch a guy like you with a ten-foot barge pole?"

"Now just a minute…"

"So you go around hiding in the bushes, and watch other people!"

"Hey, I'll have you know I _never_ have to just watch! Well, not unless I want to…"

"That's it, isn't it?" she sneered, "You're just jealous, you weirdo! Because I spent the night with a guy who was totally hot, and you're so… so… so… not!"

"Well, whose fault is that?!" Dean snapped back, "We're here to get the Living Sex God's mojo back, so you'd better…"

"Rowf!" He was interrupted by Jimi who, having finished his inspection of the garbage, came out to meet a new person. Tail wagging and tongue lolling, he sat at her feet, and offered a paw in greeting.

She looked down at him, dumbfounded, hand automatically extending to shake paw. "Is he… is he with you?"

"Yeah," Sam replied hurriedly, "And we're just leaving, we're so sorry, we've made a mistake here…"

"Oh, you bet you made a mistake," she growled, fumbling for her phone, "Get out! I'm calling the cops on you, you pervert!" She turned to glare at Sam. "Why are you helping him with this?"

"Uh, I'm not…"

"You can leave the dog, he's adorable. But get out!" She grabbed up a handful of the knick knacks he'd just been inspecting, and began to pelt Dean with them. "And _don't leer at me you creeper!"_

With sporadic cussing from Dean as he was hit by, amongst other things, a pewter mouse, a ceramic turtle and a crystal sphere (he was hit by that one twice, as Jimi paused to retrieve it and take it back to her), the Winchesters made their escape as speedily as possible.

"Ow," Dean grumbled as he started the car and made a rapid get-away, "Well, that escalated quickly."

'Gee, I can't think why," Sam replied sourly. "But we can cross her off the list of possible evil spell casters – the nose for evil shit wanted to make friends with her."

"He did more than that," Dean glared into the mirror, "What the hell was that, J-Man? Takin' it back so she could throw it at me again? Whatever happened to dicks before chicks, dude?"

"The universal law of canininity, I guess," Sam shrugged, "Somebody who isn't evil throws a 'ball', you gotta fetch it and take it back in the hope that the game can continue. You know what a strong prey drive he has – somebody throws something he thinks is a toy, he's just gotta fetch. It's in his bones. He does it without thinking about it. Sees ball, must chase. A bit like you and women," he added tartly.

"Okay, so it aint her," Dean sighed, rubbing the back of his head where the mouse had struck home. "Wow, that was one angry chick."

"Well, from her point of view, she did have a couple of complete strangers break into her house," Sam pointed out. "And then you were, well, a bit of an asshole. Rude."

"I was rude?" Dean echoed incredulously, "I was rude? She called me a pervert, and a creeper, and accused me of leering, and bein' disgusting, and you're sayin' that _I_ was rude?"

"Yeah," Sam confirmed flatly. "Look, right now, you are not the guy she went home with last night, okay? The whole Dean Winchester, cocky and self-assured smartass might wash for Dean Winchester who looks like Dean Winchester and has Dean Winchester's Killer Smile, but…"

"But not for Mr Completely Average," acknowledged Dean glumly, "Mr Average, and his creepy leer."

"Exactly."

"Great. Just great." Dean turned onto a main street.

"Where are we going?"

"To find a diner, or a caf, or anywhere that does pie."

"Huh? Why?"

"Because you'll bitch if I start drinkin' this early, so I need to eat pie right now."

"We only just had breakfast – which, I might remind you, already included pie – less than an hour ago!"

"I don't care – and I'm not goin' back to that place, either. And I warn you, Samantha, anybody, including you, who suggests I should eat fruit salad will get their clock cleaned."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Dean's mood was improved by the ingestion of pie, so Sam took advantage of that to put him in front of the second laptop, with instructions to stay the hell away from porn sites. "See what you can find out about our three dead hot guys," he told his brother, "Whether there is any other connection – somebody they knew, somewhere they went, anything."

"What are you doing?" asked Dean, regretfully pulling the cursor away from 'Naughty Night Nurses'.

"Trying to get to info from the coroners' reports," Sam replied, frowning at the screen. "Unfortunately, whoever set up their network knows their security stuff, so it could take a while, even with convincing fake credentials."

"Well, I have faith in your research fu," Dean gave him a grin. "Because I don't wanna have to suit up and play Responsible State Or Federal Agent to talk to friends and family, not in this weather." His face fell. "My suit probably doesn't fit me now, anyway. Damn. I look good in a suit. I look awesome in a suit. Well, I look awesome in anything, really. And if women are doin' the looking, I look pretty awesome in nothin', too…"

"Well, for now, since 'looking awesome' is not on the agenda, could you concentrate on the case, and any possible link to you?" Sam suggested a touch acidly. "You know, think about something relevant?"

"Yeah, okay." Dean's eyes returned to the screen. "Right now, I'm thinking about demons."

"Demons?" Sam's eyebrows shot up. "You think demons might be involved?"

"Not in this case," Dean clarified, "But now I'm in a… well, I keep thinking of it as a meatsuit, because it sure as hell aint my body, so I can't help thinking about demons."

"Dean, this is completely different," Sam said firmly. "You have not stolen somebody else's body. You have not done anything to hurt anybody. You are not 'possessing' somebody malevolently, or even unintentionally, there is no comparison between you right now and a demon!"

"Not that," Dean scoffed, "But I've been wondering – say you're a demon, you get Topside, you gotta get a physical body to do your demony demonics, so, what do you do?"

Sam gave him a level stare. "You find a person without any sort of anti-possession mojo on board, and you take 'em as your meatsuit."

"Right. So, how do they pick which meatsuit to take?"

"What?"

"You heard me, how does a demon decide which meatsuit to take? When there's generally a whole lot of people where demons are, or where they go – if you want to be a demonic asshole, you go where the people are, so you have victims to be a demonic asshole at – how do you pick a body?"

Sam looked nonplussed. "I don't know! Maybe you're so desperate to get out of Hell that you take the first available cab off the rank! Or if you want to blend in somewhere, be unobtrusive, you pick someone you think won't be noticed. Or maybe it depends on what sort of evil you're planning. For example, if you possess an authority figure, a police officer, a priest, you could wreak a special kind of havoc, or a politician, maybe – actually, I have some theories about that..."

"Yeah," Dean cut him off, "If you've got something really specific in mind, but what I've been wondering is, why don't demons take hot meatsuits?"

" _What?"_

"Well, there's lots of choices out there, right?" Dean reasoned. "Once you're Topside, you got lots of choices. Lots of cars in this yard. So, why do so many demons settle on a meatsuit that's not hot, when there are hot meatsuits just as available? Seriously, why would you settle for the ten-year-old Honda Civic when you could go look for a fully restored Pontiac? Or, why not get in the Honda, and just drive it for a little while until you spot the Pontiac, then trade it in?"

Sam's jaw dropped. "This is what you're thinking about? We're trying to find out what turned you into Mr Average Incarnate, and what might be killing hot guys, and the selection of hosts of variable hotness by demons is what consumes your thought processes?"

"I'm just sayin'," Dean waved a hand eloquently, "It don't make sense. Even if you wanted to possess a specific type of host, a cop, say, there are hot ones out there."

"Dean..."

"You don't have to settle for the nearest doughnut-munching Officer Michelin Man you find."

"Dean..."

"A lot of the male ones work out. And a lot of the female ones, too, ohhhh yeah."

"Dean..."

"I love a woman in uniform, and a hot woman in uniform, I love that even more."

"Dean..."

"There was this cop I hooked up with in Maine, and what that woman knew about body searches was amazing..."

" _Dean!"_ Sam treated his brother to a searing Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Shut! Up! About! Hot! Women!"

"Geez, hormonal much?" Dean rolled his eyes. "I just wondered, okay? Maybe next time Crowley turns up at Bobby's I can ask him about it, just before Bobby shoots him with the latest version of his Anti-Demon Rounds – I think he's up to Mark IIX. I mean, why did he settle for Varys, when he could've gone Khal Drogo?"

"Khal Drogo," Sam echoed.

"Yeah," Dean nodded, his face assumed a dignified expression. "I am secure enough in my masculinity to acknowledge that he was, as a guy, hot."

"Dean..."

"Who woulda thought that any guy could wear that much eye-liner, and come out lookin' totally non-emo?"

"Dean..."

"Take note, Sam, he was a workin' example of how to be talll, dark, and totally non-emo."

"Dean..."

"And your hair is practically long enough to braid, but maybe you could pass on the eye-liner, bro."

"Dean..."

"But I ask you, Aquaman? Somebody oughta be shot for that bit of heresy. But hey, if that Affleck guy can be Batman..."

"Oh, God," Sam moaned, then glared at Dean. "This may come as a complete surprise to you, Mr Living Sex God, but people all over the world have lives, professional lives, and private lives, and social lives, and yes, even sex lives, and they do it all whilst looking not nearly as hot as you. I know. Incredible, but true."

"It is one of life's mysteries," mused Dean, frowning at the screen. "That's weird."

"What? What's weird?"

"This guy," Dean gestured at the screen, "He stopped posting to Facebook for a week before he died. He was Mr Selfie - I think he probably took more photos than he did reps - and then, nothing."

"Yeah?" The keys of Sam's laptop rattled. "The same thing happened here – this guy was posting photos of himself every day, then suddenly, nothing, nada. And a week later, dead."

"Aaaaaand Number Three," confirmed Dean, "The selfie king, then radio silence, and a week later, dead. Why?"

"Good question," Sam grunted, "We'll work on that while we back-track on you – Sharon the angry knick-knack flinger isn't the culprit, so before that..."

"We go back to the bar," said Dean firmly. "Before her, that's the last place I was. Besides which, I need a drink."

"Right," sighed Sam, "Well, look on the bright side, you might get lucky."

"Huh?"

"Well, beer goggles work both ways, you know."

"Bitch."

* * *

Victim #1 deserved to die. No, really, anybody who stops to take a photo of themselves after every set at the gym - or in the middle of a set - deserves to die. STOP TAKING PHOTOS AND GET OFF THE BENCH I WANT IT YOU NARCISSISTIC WANKER!

Ahem. Please send reviews, because Beau-Ponty enjoys them immensely, and uses them to further horrificate Dean. Which is kinda fun. Go on, admit it, watching him have to make his way in the world like an ordinary person is amusing.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter Six**

Looking for all the world like two guys taking a dog for a walk, the Winchesters slowed to let Jimi check out the building housing the bar, but the Nose For Evil Shit didn't register anything, except for a pee-mail.

"Jimi's not picking up on any evil shit," observed Dean, as the dog sniffed thoroughly at the scent then left a reply of his own.

"If there is anything that constitutes evil shit, then it could be the person or persons, rather than the venue," Sam posited.

"Well, it aint demonic," Dean shrugged, bending to pat the earnest doggy face that grinned up at him, "If it was, he'd have picked up on if from out here. And let's face it, the trip wasn't entirely wasted. No trip anywhere in Cali is wasted during the bikini migration." He smiled as he watched a couple of said bathing suits head towards the beach, or at least, he was watching the women upon whom the bikinis were being conveyed beachwards.

One of them turned and scowled at him. "Creep," she muttered under her breath.

"Never mind, bro," Sam consoled his brother as Dean's face fell, "Your dog loves you."

"Yeah, he does," Dean sighed sadly. "But I hate to break it to you, J-Man, you aint exactly hot."

"Why don't we head down to the beach for a bit?" Sam suggested, "You and Jimi can amuse each other with the discoidal missile, that'll cheer you up."

"The discoidal... huh?" Dean looked mystified.

"You know," Sam waved a hand vaguely, "The round aerobatics toy."

"What?"

"The rotary action amusement device." Sam's eyebrows sephaphored in quite a Deanesque fashion. "The circular airborne utensil."

"Sam, unless you start speakin' English, I'm gonna have to slap you."

"You know what I mean," Sam huffed, "And you know we have to be careful how we refer to the, the, the foxtrot-appellation!"

"The foxtrot _what_?"

"The foxtrot-appellation!" Sam repeated, waving his arms, "The phi-term! The sixth-letter designation! For fuck's sake, Dean, you know what happens if you say it, he's learned what the f-word..."

Jimi suddenly began to woof excitedly, bouncing up and down on the spot.

Dean glared at his brother. "Nice goin', Francis," he complained, "You know he's figured out what 'f-word' means if you say it out loud. Now we have to take him to the beach – you wanna chase the frisbee, Jimi?" He ruffled the dog's ears as Jimi redoubled his enthusiasm. "C'mon, let's go. It's not fair to get him worked up like this, Sam, we can't disappoint him now."

"Clearly not," sighed Sam, knowing when to quit, as they headed back to the car to fetch to object of Jimi's affections.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam really didn't mind spending some more time at the beach: it gave his brain time to mull over the problem of his average-ised brother, and the dead hot guys, and at the same time, flipping the frisbee for Jimi – and monitoring the progress of the annual bikini migration, natch – seemed to improve Dean's mood somewhat.

Well, right up until the point where a police officer showed up to check out reports of 'some creepy pervy guy leering at women' on the beach.

"I'm not!" protested Dean, genuinely bemused, "It can't be me!"

"Sir, you fit the description," the officer told him. "Average height, average weight, glasses, you're wearing a faded band shirt, and you have, and I quote, 'A totally adorable dog' with you."

Jimi wagged his tail, and pestered the man for pats.

"But I'm not a perv! I'm not leerng!" Dean insisted "I'm not creepy! Okay, yeah, I'm lookin', and who wouldn't enjoy the scenery at this time of the year..."

The cop seemed to be sympathetic. "There's nothing wrong with appreciating the scenery, sir," he said, "But if you leer at the 'scenery' to the point where they feel uncomfortable, that can be a problem."

"Well, what about him?" Dean demanded, sounding somewhat petulant as he indicated another small group of friends up the beach. A man in his thirties was lounging on a beach towel, giving come-hither smiles to every woman in the 'scenery' demographic who walked past. "He was here before we were, and he's been sittin' there, smilin', and perving, and I'd call that leering, go tell him to stop before he makes women feel uncomfortable."

The cop, who was clearly a lot way from academy graduation but quite close to retirement, smiled understandingly. "Son, that guy there is what is referred to as a 'statistical outlier'."

"Huh?" Dean looked mystified.

"It means, he's really different from the norm," supplied Sam, "He's really different from the, uh, average."

The officer nodded. "He struck it lucky with his parents – he got in line twice for the handsome genes, and clearly spends a lot more time in the gym every week than you and me put together would in a year," he chuckled. "While ordinary guys like you and me are just making a living and dealing with life and enjoying what hamburgers and fries have to offer, he's pumping iron, guzzling supplements and planning his next round of steamed chicken and broccoli."

"But..." Dean looked appalled. "But... that aint fair!"

"What, you've only just worked that out?" The cop seemed genuinely amused. "Of course it aint fair. Human beings aren't designed to play 'fair'. Some hot guy smiles at a woman, it makes her feel desirable. Some average joe like us does it, well..." he left the sentence hanging. " 'Manners are especially the need of the plain – the pretty can get away with anything'."

"Evelyn Waugh said that," Sam interjected.

"Who's she?" snapped Dean, thoroughly piqued.

"He," his brother corrected. "He wrote _Brideshead Revisited_."

"And he was right," the officer added.

"Well, it sucks," muttered Dean.

"Yup, it does," agreed the cop equably, "But I like to remind myself that time catches up with everybody eventually, even Mr Animal Magnetism there – and in the meantime, he doesn't realise how he's limiting his options."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean's face was a picture of disbelief, "Look at the guy, he's loungin' there on his towel, Mr Chick Magnet, checkin' out the hot women, yeah, he's leering, he could have his pick of 'em!"

"Probably," the cop agreed, "But how many is he missing out on? If all he's interested in is what the outside looks like, well, let's face it, the pool of 'extremely hot on the outside women' is pretty small compared to the number of actual women – that leaves more for us ordinary fellas. And he doesn't even realise what he's missing out on. That's the joke, and it's on him."

"Why aren't I laughing?" Dean muttered sullenly.

"Oh, one day, he'll wake up, and he'll be my age, and he won't look like that anymore. and if a pretty face is all he ever had, well, he'll suddenly find out just how uninterested anybody is, and how shallow he always was. You and me and all the regular guys will get the last laugh, buddy, mark my words." The officer ruffled Jimi's ears. "So just tone down the scenery appreciation, and picture him as Mr Not-Hot-Anymore twenty years from now." With a brief salute, he headed back to his cruiser.

"Well, that killed the mood," griped Dean, glaring at Jimi, "What the hell was that, consorting with the enemy? Bobby's right, you're a tart for physical affection."

"Hmmmmm, who does that remind me of?" asked Sam tartly.

"I have no idea what you could possibly mean," sniffed Dean disdainfully.

"Look, that cop wasn't the enemy, Dean," Sam's eye roll was practically audible, "That was some community policing at its finest. He was trying to do you a favour, and be nice about it."

"If that was bein' nice, I'd hate to be arrested by him," Dean growled.

"Okay, okay, look, if you could just stop leering at women..."

"What, now I'm not allowed to smile at members of the opposite sex, is that it?"

"That's not what I said!" Sam snapped in exasperation. "I said, stop _leering_ , not stop smiling. Just, uh, tone it down a bit. By all means, smile, when you see an attractive woman walk past, but do a non-committal 'Friendly Greetings And Acknowledgement, Fellow Human Being' smile, rather than an 'Right Now I Want To Remove Your Underwear With My Teeth' smile."

Dean stared at him in utter incomprehension.

"Just pretend you're not smiling at an attractive woman," Sam suggested, "Pretend you're smiling at someone else. Imagine we're suited up as state or federal officials, and you're talking to an elderly lady and you want to be polite so she'll get chatty and start giving you details about the person living next door, who's a person of interest in a case we're working."

Dean looked horrified. "You mean... look at hot women, and act as if they're... not hot?"

"Exactly," Sam replied firmly. "Think of it as an act you have to pull off for a job, bro."

"Right. Right. Okay, it's just like another front, for another job. I can do that. I'll just imagine I'm talkin' to somebody's Great Aunt Muriel. Polite, non-leery smile." Letting his face relax, Dean tried a Non-Killer Smile Suitable For Appreciating Hot Women.

It put Sam in mind of the scene from a Terminator movie where the cyborg tried to replicate the human expression.

"Yeah, much better," he encouraged. "That's, uh, nobody will accuse you of leering with that, bro."

"Ohhhhhhh," Dean sank onto a nearby bench seat, and dropped his head into his hands. "If I can't _smile_ smile at attractive women, how the hell am I supposed to get laid?"

"Oh, God," Sam muttered through clenched teeth and shot his brother a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often), "Will you just get your mind above your belt, and set some sensible priorities, and concentrate on something important, like, oh, say, getting you back to yourself, and figuring out what's going on with the dead hot guys?"

"Sex is important!" Dean almost wailed, "Sex is at least as important as food! And I can't even enjoy that without somebody lookin' at me, and thinking that a guy shaped like this shouldn't be eating another bacon cheeseburger."

"Technically, Dean, _nobody_ should eat as many bacon cheeseburgers as you do," Sam noted, "No matter what they're shaped like. It's a physiological miracle that you didn't have a coronary episode before you turned thirty. But that's beside the point." Real worry leaked into his voice. "Dean, if something _is_ killing hot guys, and if what's happened to you is linked to that in any way, then we have to figure it out before..."

The grin that Dean offered Sam was rueful, and not at all inappropriately leery. "Nothin's going to happen to me, Sammy," he assured his brother, "Nothin', except the return of the Living Sex God. So don't worry." He looked at his watch. "Let's head back to the bar, have a look at it like Hunters. And if Mr Handsome Genes turns up there, I'm gonna shake him down until his teeth rattle."

* * *

Poor Dean - Mr Plod's pep talk has just depressed him even more. *snigger* What happens at the bar? Feed Beau-Ponty reviews, and let's find out!


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter Seven**

Dean looked around at the crowd in the bar. "What is it with these people?" he demanded. "Don't they have studenty stuff to be doing, you know, study to do, assignments to finish, essays to write, potplants to talk to, Dungeons & Dragons games to play?"

"It's getting to end of semester," Sam told him, looking around casually for anything that might incur a Hunter's interest, "For undergraduates, anyway, so some of 'em are finishing exams and assignments, and winding down. The older ones could be post-grads, or post-docs, or research Fellows, or academic staff. And people who don't have a direct connection to the academics, there's a lot of support around the ones who study."

"Yeah, I guess somebody's gotta cut their hair," Dean shrugged. "Or maybe not. There's guys over there with hair longer than yours."

"When student money is tight, haircuts are one of the first things to go," Sam smiled in memory. "Funny thing was, there always seemed to be enough to buy at least a moderate amount of beer."

"Well, at least some of what I taught you stuck," Dean mused philosophically, snagging another handful of peanuts. "Although if you'd just called me, I'd have lifted a set of clippers for you to... oh yeah, ohhhhhh yeah, thank you God, I take back nearly everything I said about You bein' a deadbeat dad asshole..."

"Dean," Sam almost growled, "We talked about this, don't you dare leer at a hot woman..."

"No hot woman, Sammy." Dean's smile was not leering, but it was decidedly predatory, as he indicated the knot of men at the pool tables. "Well, yeah, there are hot women there, but looky there, it's Mr I'm Too Sexy For My Towel." He watched the group over the rim of his glass, like a wolf eyeing a wounded caribou. "You know the drill, we'll let 'em start playing, then give me five minutes."

"Fine," mumbled Sam, thinking that if his big brother was hustling pool, then at least he'd be concentrating on something other than women. Mostly.

It was a textbook case, really: Mr Hot Guy couldn't resist taking on a short, slightly pudgy guy with thinning hair and a big mouth, especially in front of his friends. Especially when said big-mouth lost the first game. Sam might've felt a bit guilty if he thought the mark was a student, but it was clear he wasn't. Or if he was, he was spending too much time in the gym and not nearly enough in the classrooms or labs, so he deserved it.

The stake went up, then up again, Dean's calculated act of alcohol-fuelled over-confident obnoxiousness was pitched perfectly to goad an ego used to admiration and deference (although in this case, Sam thought, he didn't have to try very hard to get the obnoxiousness right). Sam, playing the worried side-kick, was dispatched to fetch more beer, so with a show of reluctance, he headed for the bar.

The bar was quiet, a lull in business; the bartender was the same unremarkable woman they'd seen previously, and with the lack of customers, her attention was on something else. Sam saw that she was writing on a notepad, no, it wasn't writing, he realised, it was equations of some sort. He craned his neck, vaguely recognising the format of symbols.

She'd never make a Hunter, he thought with amusement, because it was a full thirty seconds before she stopped writing and looked up, startled. "Oh!" she yipped in surprise.

"Er, sorry," Sam offered her the sort of smile he'd been trying to coach Dean in, "Didn't mean to startle you."

"Oh, no, it's my fault," she apologised, "Mixing work and... work. Next time, just throw something at me."

"Well, I didn't want to interrupt your train of thought," Sam admitted, considering the line of symbols and numbers. "It's, uh, hang on, that looks a bit like a geometric harmonic mean calculation, but..."

The bartender's tired face broke into a smile. "Do you know, nobody's ever taken any notice of what I'm writing, let alone recognised it?" she told him.

"Oh, I only recognise the format of the equation, vaguely," Sam went on hurriedly, "I, uh, didn't take much math. I was pre-law, once." He looked up at her. "Are you post-grad?"

"Doctoral student," she sighed, stifling a yawn, "There are days when I don't remember why I'm doing this to myself."

"I think anybody who studies has days like that," he commiserated.

"My parents tell me that I'm wasting my life, because there's no professional future for a Statistics major," she confided, "Let alone a PhD in the subject. They want me to 'get a real job'. My father says that if I end up working for the IRS he'll disown me."

"No, they're totally wrong," Sam said emphatically, "Ten years ago, okay, maybe, but in the last decade, bioinformatics has really become a thing; the advances being made in the collection of big data – especially in biosciences, with the advent of high volume DNA sequencing – have outstripped the capacity to analyse it, pull useful calculations out of the raw numbers. That goes for big pharma high throughput drug screening too, and there's a lot of money in looking for the next magic bullet, so if what you're working on has any connection to that..."

She actually clapped her hands in glee. "You get it! Oh my God, somebody gets it! That's..." she stopped and took a deep breath. "I'm at work," she said firmly, more to herself than Sam, "And I will not start spouting about this to a customer. What can I get you?"

"Another jug," Sam replied, "I don't mind you spouting a bit. I never mind chatting to someone who can use words of three syllables or more and make sense. Unlike somebody I could mention," he added under his breath.

"I think he might actually be winning this one," she nodded towards the pool table, where Dean swayed ever so slightly as he lined up his next shot. "Good. Guys like that group can be arrogant assholes, and I'm happy to see them taken down a peg or two."

"Oh believe me, he can do asshole too," Sam smiled, looking at the equation again. "So, if you use small words and short sentences, maybe you can tell me the gist of your thesis."

She smiled broadly as she pulled the beer. "It is to do with data analysis," she began, "Lab on a chip stuff. And working out what the most useful calculation for an average is, for a really big data set, and how that changes if you add a third, or even a fourth, or fifth, variable to your test."

"By average, do you mean the mean, or the median? Which one?" Sam looked at the scribbled equations again. "It would depend, wouldn't it? A mean, rather than the median, for something like drug screening. If you're looking to do a multi-dimensional plot, that would save time – and I guess the idea of the harmonic mean would be the best strategy to start with, but, uh, after that, you lose me."

"You got a lot further than just about anybody who walks into this bar." She pushed the jug of beer across the bar, and offered her hand. "Karen," she said.

"Sam." He shook her hand, and she smiled again, shaking her head.

"In the last year, I don't think I've ever met anyone who was, well, like you." Her smile changed somewhat as he paid. "All this, and brains, too." Karen appeared to make a decision, then she scribbled something on the notepad. "I get off in an hour – after that, if you're free, I'd be happy to talk to you about my work. Or, well, anything, really," she finished, leaning onto the bar to look up at him as she slid the torn paper across the worn surface. He picked it up.

It was a phone number.

Sam gave her a regretful smile. "Oh, God, Karen, I'm, uh, I'm sorry," he apologised, "You're a really interesting person, but, I don't really, uh, the whole casual thing..." he gestured sheepishly over his shoulder, "And I gotta keep an eye on him. Make sure he doesn't do anything really stupid. Well, no more stupid than normal... sorry."

She sighed. "Damn, and a nice guy, too. But it's okay. Really. Don't ask, definitely don't get, right?"

"Absolutely," Sam agreed, "And there's nothing wrong with a woman asking, because..."

"Sammy!" The ever-so-slightly-too-loud voice behind him indicated the approach of Dean. "Where's the beer? I need beer, dude, so I can fuel up for the next game! I'm gonna win my money back! Come and watch me win my money back!" He raised his voice for the benefit of his clueless mark.

Sam almost managed not to roll his eyes. "Here's your precious beer," he growled as he handed over the jug, "And in case you didn't notice, I'm talking to somebody. With more than two alcohol-marinated brain cells to bang together."

"You can do better'n that, even if you are a great big geek," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "Come on, I got a game to win!"

Sam turned back to the bartender. "Oh God, I'm sorry," he began.

Sam had seen women being callously brushed off by men before, and he was acquainted with the reactions: anywhere from a shuttered expression of concealed hurt to philosophical amusement. Karen clearly tended towards the amused end of the spectrum – she was even smiling wryly. "I get that a lot," she said matter-of-factly. "I'm nothing special to look at. And some men are just...mean." She chuckled to herself. "I'm sure you could do better than me, Sam – but I doubt he could. Not when he's that mean."

"Uh, well, sometimes his mouth goes into gear before his brain, especially if he's been drinking," Sam told her awkwardly, "I'd uh, better go and..." he gestured vaguely at the pool table. "Good luck with the thesis. And the job hunt afterwards."

"Good luck to you, Sam," she said, turning back to her notepad.

He returned to the pool tables, where Dean swilled more beer in preparation to clean up. Sam let out the required gasp of horror when he saw how much was riding on the game, then stepped back to watch for trouble when the trap closed.

Dean's timing was perfect: he let his opponent get down to one colour left, then knocked all his remaining balls off the table.

As he watched the black roll and drop, he straightened up and pocketed the stake, turning an infuriating smile that would be identifiable as 100% Deanness on any face to the gobsmacked group. "Thank you, gentlemen," he said, "Lessons are over for today, but I'm up for a rematch tomorrow if you want more instruction."

There was some sneering and grumbling as Mr Chick Magnet realised that he'd been royally hustled, but his pals steered him away from the tables, with mutters about not getting his hands dirty on a fat balding runt.

"Huh," sniffed Dean, "Rude as well as a sore loser. Maybe once I'm my awesome self, I should come back and fleece 'em again."

"There's nothing here that I can pick up," Sam told him, "So either we think of a way to get Jimi in here, or we backtrack further. And given the look on Mr Irresistible's face, I think we should leave sooner rather than later," he added, "He's really not happy."

"But he's much wiser," Dean's annoying grin reappeared. "And I aint goin' anywhere until I finish my drink. And my snacks." He shoved a handful into his mouth. "And maybe you can find some female company – the bikinis may not venture out after dark, but the women who carry them around do. You need to get laid, Sam."

"I was actually talking to a woman, before you interrupted," Sam pointed out.

"I mean, find a hot one," Dean clarified. "And go home with her. Show her a good time."

"Dean..."

"Have yourself a good time, too, obviously."

"Dean..."

"If you don't make her toes curl at least twice, you aint a true Winchester, bro – I taught you better'n that."

"Dean..."

"You can take the car, me and Jimi will walk back."

"Dean..."

"Provided that when you get back you tell me all about it."

" _Dean!"_ Sam shot his brother a searing Bitchface #5™ (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk). "Shut! Up! About! Getting! Laid!"

Dean sighed sadly. "I don't know where I went wrong with you," he declared wistfully. "I mean, you could have your pick of the bikini transports here tonight, and you were talking about..." he paused. "What exactly were you talkin' about?"

"Statistics," growled Sam, "And before you ask, yeah, it was interesting, and yeah, I know you don't get it."

"The only statistics you need to know about when you're talkin' about a woman are..."

"If you say one word about measurements or cup sizes, I will punch you," Sam growled. "There are days when I look at you and think, Neanderthals didn't become extinct, they just evolved into you." He paused. "Then I stop thinking that, because it's probably slandering Neanderthals."

"Nothin' wrong with bein' in touch with the Inner Caveman," Dean grinned, "Sometimes, it's damned useful."

"Well you aren't going to be hitting any woman over the head and dragging them back to your cave for now," Sam responded, annoyed into acidity, "Not looking like that. You want to get laid, you'll actually have to talk to her."

"I do talk to women!" protested Dean, "The Living Sex God knows exactly how to talk to women!"

"With a selection of pick-up lines that don't even count as single entendres," Sam shot back. "Face it, bro, right now, that would be the verbal equivalent of leering."

Dean sighed, and drooped. "This sucks," he muttered, finishing his drink, "One more sweep, then we head back. If I can't look at and chat up hot women, I don't want to be in this reality any more. I don't like it. I want to leave right now."

A final surreptitious check of the bar didn't reveal anything suspicious, so they headed back out to the car.

There was no way they could've missed the sounds of feet behind them, even if they weren't Hunters: the night's hustle victim and his friends weren't even bothering with stealth, so the Winchesters just kept heading for the car until an angry voice called "Hey, you!"

Dean turned, looking completely relaxed to anybody except Sam, and smiled that infuriating grin. "Sorry, boys," he drawled, "I did say, school's out for the day. But nice try, and thank you for playing."

"You cheated," Mr Chick Magnet growled, stepping forward, "You fucking cheated me!"

"He let you cheat yourself," Sam cut in, trying to defuse the situation and mentally willing Dean to stop kicking the hornet's nest, especially when the hornets might be milling uncertainly for now but had clearly had quite a lot to drink, "You tried to take advantage of a guy who looked drunk, only he wasn't. And it was a fair game."

"I want my damned money back," Mr C.M.'s hands bunched into fists.

"If it was your money, I would give it to you," Dean smiled beatifically, "But it aint your money anymore, so, why don't you guys just flock off?"

"Dean, not helping here," Sam muttered.

"Sam, not worried here," Dean shrugged, "Because let's face it, these guys aint any match for..."

With an angry roar, Dean's latest victim raised a fist.

It was a clumsy punch, an untrained punch, but it had a lot of male muscle behind it, and it broke the dam for the guys behind him.

Ordinarily, five against two might be just about a fair fight for the Winchesters – when a group of drunk-affected men tried to roll them, they tended to get in each others' way more than anything else. However, the situation was not exactly ordinary.

Dean was finding that his mind knew exactly what to do.

Unfortunately, his body wasn't quite as up to the task as usual, and it refused to act as hard or as fast as he instructed it...

"Ooof!" By luck rather than design, a blow to his gut knocked the wind out of him, and his lungs stubbornly refused to pull in enough air. He heard his brother call his name as he fell to his knees.

"I'm fine, Sam," he tried to say, but it came out as a whistling wheeze.

His attacker smiled unpleasantly, and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him upright. "You shoulda just handed over the money while you had the chance, you little shit," he sniggered as he began to rifle Dean's pockets, "So, I'll just take it back, then break your face, and we'll call it quits..."

 _Grrrrrrrrrrrrr_

The five attackers suddenly stiffened when they heard The Noise.

 _Grrrrrrrrrrrrr_

It was a noise that travelled through the ground rather than the air, a noise that went straight to the human hindbrain without bothering with the whole complicated ear thing.

 _Grrrrrrrrrrrrr_

Dean smiled up at his would-be attacker as the man's face drained of blood. "Let me introduce you to the cavalry," he smirked.

Jimi stalked forward in a predatory crouch, hackles raised, eyes crackling with red highlights, hell-teeth like boning knives bristling from slavering jaws.

Humans might be the dominant species on the planet, but deep within that highly evolved brain there are still primitive structures that remember a time just a few million years ago when a noise like that meant that you should a) stop what you were doing and a) run the fuck up the nearest tree, b) if you were young and healthy scatter at high speed because it couldn't kill all of you at once, or c) if you were old or injured or pregnant, sit down and wait, since there was no point in running because you'd only die tired.

Mr Chick Magnet and his pals got one look at an angry half-Rottweiler/half-Hellhound, with both halves dialled all the way up to Eat Your Fucking Soul, and went with option b).

"Fuck," gasped Sam, watching them go as he pulled Dean to his feet, "Are you okay, bro?"

"Never better, Sammy," Dean managed to gasp some actual words, as Jimi stopped threatening bloody death and pushed his head under his Alpha's hand with a worried whine.

"Why the hell did you have to provoke them like that?" Sam's dissipating worry found its way out as exasperation. "You nearly got your face punched in!"

"But I didn't," Dean's smirk fought to reassert itself, "Not with the J-man on the case. You showed them, hey, fella?" He patted the big earnest face that gazed up at him soulfully, still whining.

"Well, we should get the hell out of here," stated Sam, turning to head for the car. "Before they come back. And before you collapse. You look terrible, bro."

"I'm fine," Dean's voice sounded breathy as he rubbed at his chest, "I just need to get my breath back, then we can..."

Sam caught him as he fell, and dragged him to the car.

* * *

It's true; when you're a student, you might not have enough to get a haircut, and maybe you have to pay the electricity bill a week late, or beg the money from family to get a pair of disintegrating boots resoled (you'd never dream of asking to buy new ones), or live on toast and tea for a few days here and there – but there's always money for beer. There's probably an entire branch of economics around that just waiting to be written up. Studentnomics. There's a lot of thesis titles just waiting to be studied: The Rent Is Late Again, But At Least We Haven't Run Out Of Cheap Rum Entirely. (Maybe that's why Ronnie Shepherd developed a taste for Bundaberg Rum; she was destined for tertiary study before fate intervened.)

Send reviews, because Reviews are the Cheap Booze As You Study For The Exams Of Life!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

Dean had protested when Sam had pointed the car at the nearest clinic, but eventually it was the expression on his baby brother's face that shut him up. Well, almost.

"I'm fine, Sam," he insisted. "There's nothing wrong, really. It's probably just lack of sex."

"You turned grey, Dean," Sam told him, as they waited for the return of the doctor, "Your face turned grey, you grabbed your chest, and you fainted."

"I did not faint!" Dean complained. "I just had a, you know, a very manly dizzy spell. On account of having just been jumped by a pack of assholes." He subsided under a full frontal Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk), and wiggled on the uncomfortable narrow clinical bed – if it was necessary for a stake-out on a job, he could lie absolutely motionless and silent for hours, but when confined to a cubicle for medical assessment to be poked and prodded by a number of medical staff, Dean's patience didn't so much evaporate as spontaneously detonate. "I hate these stupid gowns," he complained. "Nobody can look hot in these gowns. Even the Living Sex God can barely look hot in them."

"Well, right now, you are not the Living Sex God, so it doesn't matter," snapped Sam. "This is not some injury you can tough out, Dean – if something is systemically wrong, you can't just ignore it and soldier on."

Dean subsided, with a mutinous mutter about inadequately hot nurses, but let the matter drop – ever since the episode with the rawhead that had damaged his heart, Sam was going to react badly to anything that made him think that Dean was suffering from any sort of cardiac problem.

Eventually, just as Dean has started whining for a bacon cheeseburger to tide him over until he could get to another bacon cheeseburger, a tired but smiling middle-aged face appeared around the thin curtain. "Dean Young? I'm Frank Dennison, one of the cardiac consultants here, for my sins."

"Great," humphed Dean, "And I hope you're here to tell Florence Nightmare that I'm not having a heart attack."

"Oh, you're definitely not having a heart attack," the older man chuckled as he sat down. "Well, not yet."

"Not yet?" Sam yelped. "What do you mean, not yet?"

The doctor looked down at his folder, which was stuffed with a collection of pieces of paper, then back at Dean. "I get the feeling you're a man who doesn't have any time for fancy talk and big words that nobody can understand," he began, "And I prefer to be straight with patients, in order to make sure they grasp the situation. You didn't have a heart attack – what you suffered was an angina attack."

"What the hell's that?" Dean demanded. "It sounds like I was hit by an Italian car."

"It's when the muscle of the heart doesn't get enough oxygenated blood, due to constriction of the cardiac arteries," Sam filled in. "It's like a heart attack that's not serious enough to be an actual heart attack."

"Couldn't have put it plainer myself," the doctor noted. "In fact, I may steal that in future. Classic example – asymptomatic until it's brought on by unaccustomed strenuous physical effort, which would be the fight you were involved in this evening."

"Unaccustomed?..." Dean's indignation subsided under a warning scowl from Sam. "They started it," he muttered, glaring at his brother like a sibling who's angry at being snitched on. "We won."

"Good for you." The doctor paused. "The thing is, you might not have had a heart attack, but you are currently headed for one." He shuffled through the folder, then looked Dean in the eye. "What happened to you was a warning. Mr Young – Dean – given your current physical state, and your current dietary habits, and your current alcohol intake, I can confidently diagnose you as a man eating and drinking yourself into an early grave."

"I've been telling him that for years," Sam stated, trying but not completely succeeding in keeping all traces of smugness out of his voice.

"Well, he's not going to listen to anything his little brother tells him," the older man laughed. "I sure as hell rarely do." His face became serious. "But I hope you'll listen to him on this, and maybe to the old fart in the white coat. I see this a lot. In fact, I've lived it myself." He smiled ruefully. "You don't think anything of it when you're in your teens, your twenties – you play sport at school, or after work, if only socially, but regularly, and you drink on the weekends with your friends, and you're too busy living life to worry much about your health, and it doesn't make any difference anyway, because it seems to absorb whatever you throw at it and carry on. Sound familiar?"

"Definitely," Sam stated firmly, before Dean could say anything to break their cover.

But then, along comes that bitch called Real Life."

"Real Life?" echoed Dean, not liking the sound of the capital letters that were clearly there.

"Uh-huh," nodded the doctor, "Time passes, and you get older. Life changes: you get a job, that job changes, and you get other responsibilities, maybe even a family. You're not so active, but you don't want to give up beer and pizza nights with the guys. Sound familiar?"

"Well, yeah," Dean agreed, "Nobody wants to give up beer and pizza."

"Of course. And while this is happening, your own body is sabotaging you as it ages: and if you keep on behaving the way you did in your twenties, it all starts to catch up with you. In all sorts of ways." The doctor thumbed through some paper. "It happens slowly, gradually, so you don't really notice it, until one day, wallop."

"Wallop?" repeated Dean.

"Yup," the doctor nodded. "Dean, I'm sorry to say, you are a classic case of what's happening to half the men of America: you are overweight, and underactive, you have high triglycerides – blood fat – high blood pressure, and high blood sugar, and I would bet my house that if we did a fasting glucose test, you're pre-diabetic. And that's before we begin to talk about the markers for liver disease."

Dean looked appalled. "Diabetic? As in, your body not processing sugar properly?"

"That's the bunny," the doctor nodded. "Not quite, but you're getting there. I could sit here and tell you horror stories about the consequences of improperly managed diabetes, which affects every system of the human body for the worse, but let's just summarise by saying that it's a complicated disease that will reduce the length and quality of your life."

Dean's face looked almost as horrified as Sam's.

"Fortunately, there is a remedy for this," the doctor smiled, "And I can tell you from personal experience, it works. It will improve your cardiac function, lower your weight, make your blood pressure drop, fix the problems with your blood work, even your liver will get with the program – in the end, you will probably end up not having to be on any medication at all."

"Well, thank fuck for that," spluttered Dean, "So, write me a prescription so I can get the hell out of here."

That made Dr Dennison laugh aloud. "I wish I could," he chuckled, "I wish there was a pill I could prescribe to fix this – it would make my job easier, and my patients a lot happier, and more compliant. Hell, I wish I could invent the pill. Or at least have shares in the company that does. No, Dean, I'm afraid that what we're talking about here are some long-term lifestyle changes."

"Lifestyle changes?" Dean blinked with incomprehension.

"Your diet, bro," Sam's face wasn't smiling, but Dean could hear his brother's voice practically smirking. "It means, switching from your usual daily intake of cowpig sandwiches, pie and alcohol, to a more nutritionally sound diet. And maybe some exercise," he couldn't help adding.

"Huh?" Dean stared at the doctor in disbelief. "But... that's going to be really difficult, doc – we travel a lot for work, always stayin' in a different place, we eat out a lot..."

The doctor leaned in and gave Dean a level stare. "Dean, I am about to say something that you are really not going to like," he stated. "It is possible. I know that, because your brother is clearly managing it. Quite well. In fact, if I didn't know different, I would never have picked the two of you as full blood siblings."

"What? Him?" Dean let out a scornful snort. "But he's not normal, you should see some of the stuff he eats, doc, it's green, and not even cooked, and sometimes there's damned _lentils_ , for fuck's sake! What he eats isn't food for people – he eats what my food eats!"

"Don't forget the exercise, bro," Sam's face gave up, and let the grin happen. "The ol' cardio workout, you can't beat it."

"I get plenty of cardio workout!" Dean protested. "Believe me, makin' a lady's toes curl three times a night is not for the unfit..."

"Well, I've given you my medical opinion," the doctor, a veteran of dealing with patients receiving the unwelcome news that they were going to have to take responsibility for their own health, cut in smoothly. "I'll give you a referral to a clinical dietician, and I suggest you consult an exercise physiologist, or the like. When I found myself in your position, I got a lot of benefit from some work with a personal trainer who specialised in helping people get their health turned around. To start with, I suggest observing the little brother in the wild. Eat what he eats, do what he does."

"There aint nothin' normal about goin' for a run if there's nothin' chasing you," Dean griped sullenly.

"You don't have to run," the doctor consoled him. "Take your dog for a walk – I can see the hair on your jacket, there. It'll be good for both of you, and I'll bet the dog would enjoy it."

"He would," Sam enthused, "He loves to go for walks! You can't say the w-word out loud in front of him, he gets so excited."

"I'll give you something for the angina pain, in case it happen again," the doctor went on, "But essentially, your brother has nailed it. It's up to you to fix this for yourself, Dean. Move around more, lay off the booze, and eat less crap."

"Yeah, well, it's the only thing he's nailed for too long," Dean mumbled for Sam's ears only "And it's affecting his brain."

The doctor scribbled out a prescription, and handed Dean some paperwork. "There are a lot of useful resources online these days," he told them, "Buck up, Dean – this can be fixed."

"But what about pizza?" Dean almost wailed. "What about beer? What about _pie_?"

"Oh, nobody's suggesting you give up everything fun entirely," the doctor reassured him, "Life's too short for that! You just have to moderate it. Now me, depending on when I work, I usually have what I like to call Fuck It Friday – by the end of the week, neither my wife nor I can be bothered cooking dinner, so we go out or have take out. And for that one meal a week, we go nuts!"

"One meal a week?" Dean sounded like a horrified parrot.

"Oh, yeah," Doctor Dennison smiled widely, "Once a week, it's deep fried, saturated and refined, washed down with a six pack between us! So, good luck," he shook their hands in farewell, "I'm counting on you to help your big brother form some new habits here, Sam, these long term changes can be challenging."

"I'm on it, doc," Sam said seriously, with a resolute expression – Dean half expected him to salute. "Count on me."

"Good man. Good luck, Dean. You'll be amazed at how much better you'll feel." With those encouraging words, the cardiologist took his leave.

"So, happy now?" Dean griped on the way back to the car. "I'm not havin' a heart attack. I told you I wasn't havin' a heart attack!"

"Yeah, okay," Sam conceded, sliding into shotgun, "You're not having a heart attack."

"Okay then." Dean eased the Impala out of the parking lot, "So, we'll just get these pills, then something to eat, I'm frigging starving, all that lying around when I should've been eating... aha!" Spotting a drive-through, he smiled widely. "Okay, so, I vote for a cheeseburger, we'll see if they do low-fat, high-fibre and dolphin-friendly yoghurt for you..."

"Dean!" Sam snapped in horror, "Didn't you hear a word that doctor said?"

"Sure I did," Dean rolled his eyes, "He went on and on about it enough. 'Fuck It Friday'? Seriously? Just makes me even more glad I never went to college."

"He was serious, Dean," Sam went on, "Your lifestyle habits are damaging your health! You had an angina attack, for fuck's sake!"

"No I didn't," Dean protested, "This body did. This body aint my body."

"But for now, you're in it," Sam countered, "And Mr Average American there is a pre-diabetic cirrhotic heart attack waiting to happen! What happens if you push it over the edge while you're still inhabiting it?"

"I won't, Sam," Dean wheedled, "We'll figure out what's going on, and we'll fix this, well before anything happens to..." he broke off and inhaled sharply.

"What is it?" demanded Sam.

"Nothin', Francis," Dean grinned infuriatingly as he rubbed at his chest, "Probably just an aftershock. I'm probably just faint from lack of cheeseburger."

"Dean." Sam turned to him with a Bitchface™ that was a combination of #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) and #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "This is not a joke. This could kill you. Or disable you. This is not something to be messed with. We will fix whatever happened to you, but we don't know how long it will take. And that body has to stay alive until then."

The pleading note in Sam's voice broke through Dean's bravado. "Yeah, yeah," he sighed, "I guess I don't want to die in this body if I can't even leave a good-looking corpse. Fuck." He passed the drive-through. "But I am hungry."

"You are allowed to eat," Sam reassured him, "It's not about starving yourself, it's just about, you know, moderation."

"Fine," Dean gave in, "Find us somewhere to eat. But I warn you, Samantha, you try to make me eat lentils, I will punch you. With extreme moderation of moderation."

* * *

Poor Dean, assailed by Real Life. Alistair had nothing on the horrors that Real Life can throw at a person. Send reviews for Beau-Ponty to eat, because Reviews Are The Fuck It Friday In The Sensible Dietary Intake Of Life!


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

"What – is – _that_?"

It was spoken in a tone suggestive of an aristocratic lady finding a grubby street urchin sitting on the pristine steps of her favourite townhouse, a Michelin starred chef staring in horror at a can of Cheez Whiz, or possibly a blithely ignorant fickriter browsing cheerfully and blindly through DeviantART and landing unsuspecting on a Crobby picture that leaves nothing to the imagination.

In this case, it was spoken by Dean Winchester as he stared at his plate.

"It's your breakfast, Dean," Sam answered, tucking into his own. He was in a good mood – he'd only gotten three steps from the car when he'd realised that he had something stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and it turned out to be a fifty dollar note.

"Yes, Sam," Dean said with a smile that was in no way leering but nine-tenths I Will Buttfuck Your Soul, "I understand that it is my breakfast. I know that, because it's morning now, and I'm hungry, and we're sitting in a diner, shortly after having woken up. I understand the concept of breakfast. What I want to know is, what the fuck is it supposed to be?"

"It's eggs on toast," Sam replied.

"No, it's not," Dean snapped, "I know what eggs on toast looks like – there's bread that's been toasted, there's butter, then there's eggs, and bacon on top. This is NOT eggs on toast."

"It totally is!" Sam protested.

"It totally is not!" Dean shot back, "This shit is green, Sam! Butter is not green!"

"It's avocado, smartass," Sam rolled his eyes.

"What the fuck happened to the eggs? They're not cooked!"

"They are cooked, Dean."

"No they're not!"

"Yes they are."

"No they're not!"

"Yes they are! If they weren't cooked, they'd just be all runny and transparent and they'd just ooze right off the toast!"

"If they're cooked, then where are the crunchy bits, huh? Where are my damned crunchy bits?"

"They've been poached, Dean, there are no crunchy bits!"

"Well, poaching sucks. It's illegal when you do it to elephants, you know."

"That's a completely different meaning of the word!"

"And there's no bacon on top! What is _this_ crap? If this is some unholy version of tofu bacon, I will end you for blasphemy."

"It's haloumi."

"Haloumi? What is that, Arabic for 'disgusting vegetable substitute for bacon that we're allowed to eat because we're not allowed to eat bacon, Allah damn it'?"

"It's a cheese, Dean."

"If I'm gonna eat cheese, why can't I have a cheeseburger?"

"Because a cheeseburger is full of excess calories, saturated fat, refined carbohydrates and salt."

"Yeah, that's nearly all the major food groups I need – just throw in a beer, and it's a complete meal."

"It's seven o'clock in the morning, Dean! You can't have a cheeseburger for breakfast!"

"Cheese goes with burger, Sam, like snacks go with TV, like Dr Sexy goes with cowboy boots, like politicians go with lying. I can't just eat cheese. A man is not a mouse! Why does it look like that, anyway?"

"It's been fried."

"Fried? Cheese that's been fried, and eggs that haven't? What fresh hell is this?"

"It's a sensible, nutritionally sound breakfast, is what it is."

"Where's the piece of dead meat?"

"What the fuck are you, a Hellhound?"

"No, I'm a human being. I'm not a herbivore, Sam! A man is not a cow!"

"Will you just shut up and eat!" Sam hissed between clenched teeth. "Human beings are omnivores, and are in fact capable of surviving without any meat at all, and if you don't knock of the melodramatics you will be forced to survive without a head because I'm going to knock yours right off!" He stabbed viciously at his own breakfast. "You shouldn't find that too difficult, thought, because if I just knock your head off, well, it's not like you keep anything important in there..."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean sighed heavily, and bit into a forkful of fake bacon-replacement cheese and raw egg on green shit toast. "What's this supposed to be?"

"It's a smoothie."

"What does it smooth?"

"It's a drink, you jerk, you know damned well what a smoothie is."

"I want coffee."

"You've had a coffee."

"I want more coffee."

"It's not sensible to have more coffee."

"Sam, I need coffee!"

:No you don't."

"Please, bro, just a small slice..."

"Dean, you drink too much coffee. We both do. It would be good for me to try to cut down, too."

"Sam, I don't just want it, okay, if you want me to function with a reduced alcohol intake, I need it! Would you tell a diabetic that they need to cut down on insulin? If I told you that you need to cut down on oxygen, how would you react? If I told you to lay off the lettuce, how would you cope? Don't make me give up coffee!"

"I'm not making you 'give up' anything, it's about moderation."

"Okay, well, I need a moderately sized coffee."

"You don't."

"I do! I really do! Give me coffee, or give me death!"

"Right now, I'm considering the death bit, coffee or not."

"C'mon, Sam," Dean wheedled, "I can't concentrate on this job if I get a caffeine withdrawal headache."

Sam shot his brother a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Fine," he said through a tight smile, gesturing to a waitress. "More caffeine for Dean."

A few minutes later, she returned.

"Sam, what the hell is that?"

"It's tea, Dean."

"Yes, yes, I can see that it's tea. It wasn't exactly a literal question, Sam. What I mean is, why have you ordered tea?"

"So you can get a moderate caffeine hit."

From tea? Seriously? I gotta drink tea now?"

"No Dean, you don't 'gotta' drink it. You have your smoothie."

"But... tea?"

"It's good enough for Jean-Luc Picard."

"But it's tea!"

"Sixty-five million Brits can't be wrong, bro."

"I need coffee, Sam! A man is not a teapot!"

"Dean, just shut up and eat your breakfast.'

"I suppose pie is out of the question?"

"Don't even think about it."

"I hate you."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Dean's whining had just about subsided when they returned to their room, to start up the laptops and get back to the case.

"This is depressing," Dean complained after some time, "Sitting here, lookin' at pictures of hot guys having fun, it's just depressing. This one's eating curly fries," he added resentfully.

"Yeah, I'm still having trouble with the system security here," Sam muttered, leaning back and stretching, "Maybe it's time for a break."

"Amen." Dean stood up and made his way to the small bar fridge. "I need a drink. So, I still can't find any connection between... Sam, what is this?" He held up a bottle the same way somebody might pick up a dead mouse.

"It's kombucha, bro."

"Kom-what?"

"Kombucha."

"I'm sorry, let me rephrase that – when I said 'What is this?', I really meant 'Where the hell is the beer?'."

"You don't need beer at this hour. You don't need beer, period."

"It's beer o'clock somewhere, Sam."

"But not here."

"Beer o'clock is not just a time zone," Dean protested, "It's a state of mind."

Sam glared at his brother with a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean). "Dean, you drink too much beer. Both of us do. It won't do either of us any harm to try to cut down on the alcohol intake. It will be positively beneficial, in fact. So, if you want a cold drink, drink that."

"I don't want this, Sam!" yapped Dean, "You were supposed to get beer! I want a refreshing, fizzy, fermented beverage, not this overpriced New Age dolphin pee crap!"

"Kombucha _is_ a refreshing fizzy fermented beverage," Sam told him. "And I got it for more than half price off, because the printing on the labels isn't quite right, which was a lot cheaper than beer."

"Really?" Dean peered suspiciously at the bottle. "Fermented? Like beer?"

"Well, yeah," Sam told him, "In a very similar way. It starts off as a tea, then..."

"Again with the tea! What is it with you and tea, bro? Is there some curse on you turnin' you into a Limey?"

"No!" Sam snapped, "Look, it starts off with tea instead of barley, okay, and it's fermented by a yeast, just like beer, except the sugar doesn't come from a grain, it's added to the tea, so the yeast ferments the sugar to produce alcohol..."

"Alcohol? Why didn't you just say?" Dean beamed as he uncapped the bottle. "For a moment there, I thought you were angling to make me try some weirdo drippy hippy new age crap." He raised the bottle to take a long drink.

"...Which is in turn converted to acetic acid by bacteria of the _Acetobacteracea_ family," Sam finished as Dean sprayed a mouthful across the small kitchenette.

"What the..." he spluttered. "You told me this stuff contained alcohol!"

"It can," Sam shrugged, "Depending on the fermentation, it can be up to 0.5%, although homemade stuff can go higher or be forced lower, if you tweak the conditions."

"It tastes like vinegar!" Dean yelped in outrage.

"No it doesn't," Sam rolled his eyes, "The bacteria in kombucha are different species to those used to produce vinegar – one of 'em can produce cellulose, which is typically something only done by plants..."

"Stop. Stop – right – there," instructed Dean, glaring balefully at his little brother. "You have replaced our beer with this... stuff, and induced me to drink it under false pretences."

"I did not!" Sam retorted hotly. "Look, I'm just trying to get you to take care of your health for a bit, so you don't die until we figure out what happened to you! Which bit of 'I don't want you to die' do you not understand?"

Dean sat down heavily, eyeing the bottle with despair. With a resigned sigh, he took another drink from the bottle, and made a face. "This stuff is supposed to be drinkable?"

"Some people claim it has all sorts of health benefits," Sam replied, "Although there's no hard data on that. The point is, it's not as nutritionally unsound as beer or sodas. And if it does turn out to have any benefits, that's a bonus."

"Well, if it does turn out to be good for me, that would explain the taste," Dean noted philosophically. "If it tastes good or it's fun to do, it's always bad for me, but if it tastes gross or it hurts, it's good for me," he declared with all the certainty of a six-year-old getting a first true insight into how the real world works. "It sucks."

"Once we get you back to yourself and your non-average constitution, it won't suck quite so much," Sam's voice held a note of sympathy, "But for now, you've just gotta deal with life on the same terms as the average guy does." He sat back, and stretched, wincing. "Crap, I need to stretch out and give my brain a rest. I'm going for a run."

"A freak as well as a geek," muttered Dean, "Well, if you're taking a break, I can, too – I think there's a Dr Sexy marathon on cable, and..."

"You could come out too," Sam suggested, ratting through his duffel for a pair of sweat pants.

"In this body? You're kidding, right?" Dean looked down at himself forlornly. "It gets out of breath goin' up stairs, let along trying to keep up with a running moose."

"You heard the doctor, you don't have to run," Sam reminded him. "You can just go out for a, you know, a whiskey-word."

"A whiskey...? Oh," understanding dawned on Dean's face.

"Yeah, and, uh, juliet-india-mike-india would love to go," Sam continued. "You know he does."

"He also likes to sit with me and enjoy snacks and TV," Dean countered, "So, we don't have to go anywhere for both of us to take a refreshing break, even without beer, so..."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Dean," Sam snapped, "Just put on your trainers and take Jimi for a walk!"

At the mention of his name and the whiskey-word out loud, Jimi began to whuff excitedly, his tail wagging so hard that his whole back end gyrated.

"Nice going, bitch," complained Dean, as Sam gave him a grim scowl of triumph, "You got him all worked up! Well, you can take him on your run."

"Sorry, bro," Sam pulled a singlet over his head and made for the door, "It's actually not good for a dog to go any faster than a trotting gait for more than a few minutes, because they can't pant when they canter, so it'll be much better if he goes out with you."

"Sam..."

"Enjoy taking JIMI for a WALK!" Sam trilled as he headed out the door.

"BITCH!" yelled Dean. His baby brother flipped him off as he set out.

With a sigh, Dean reached for Jimi's leash. "Well, I can't leave you hanging, can I," he said to the dog, who clearly agreed with him. "Just let me get some suitable footwear on. Suitable for going out for a brisk walk. And suitable for briskly kicking a Sasquatch in the ass when he gets back."

* * *

Sensible diet? Moderate exercise? How absolutely ghastly for poor Dean. How much more indignity can one man stand? (He shouldn't diss the 'booch, though, I brew my own (I prefer a low-sugar no-alcohol version) and it's fantastic stuff. Much less nutritionally unsound than beer or soda, and I think it tastes better than either of them.)

Poor little Beau-Ponty the plot bunny is feeling peckish, so feed him reviews to power him along, because Reviews Are The Weekly Ration Of Chocolate In The Sensible Eating Plan Of Life!


	10. Chapter 10

You can't beat the phonetic alphabet if you have dogs. In our household, we always spell out the whiskey-word, otherwise the ensuing shenanigans is spectacular, and noisy. The German Shepherd learned what 'w-word' meant very early in the piece, but so far, whiskey-alpha-lima-kilo seems to be beyond her ken. So is bravo-alpha-tango-hotel, thankfully.

And srsly, Sam is right, there is no credible evidence that kombucha has any therapeutic properties, although if you go online you can find people who will claim that it is a 'superfood' (whatever the hell that is supposed to mean) that cures everything from bubonic plague to a seized engine. Drink it if you like the taste – it really is more sensible than soft drink or beer. Brewing your own is really easy, and fun, and you can learn it all from YouChoob. My scoby's name is Trevor. (scoby = symbiotic colony of bacteria & yeast. It looks like a giant booger, but it makes a tasty drink.)

* * *

 **Chapter Ten**

When the brothers returned to their room, Dean was annoyed to see that he was at least as sweaty and out of breath as Sam, who had been running.

"So," asked Sam, around getting his breath back, "How did you go?"

"We went awesome," Dean told him disdainfully. "We did what you wanted, okay? We went for a... whiskey-word, and we went along the beach, chased some seagulls, well, the J-Man chased the seagulls, I collected more data on the bikini migration – no, I didn't leer, bitch – and we were out in the fresh air, and gettin' some of your beloved cardio exercise, and bein' in the natural sunlight, and getting' our heart rates elevated, and...'

"And eating ice-cream," Sam interrupted accusingly.

"What? No!" Dean insisted. "We did not eat ice-cream!"

"Really?" pressed Sam.

"Really," Dean stated firmly.

"In that case, one of those seagulls crapped on the front of your shirt."

"What?" Dean looked down. "Sonofabitch, I thought I was totally careful, I mean, it's not like I'd want a single drop of ice-creamy goodness go to waste... hey," he protested in the face of Sam's scowl of disapproval, "Ice-cream is good for me! It's got dairy in it, right? Calcium for strong bones, and healthy teeth, protein for muscles and brains..."

"Saturated animal fat," Sam cut in, "Highly processed milk components. Added milk fat, added sugar, lots of it, corn syrup, guaranteed to screw with your blood sugar, polysorbate, which when you get down to it is just a type of detergent – to get any benefit from the calcium or protein content, you'd have to eat half the damned truck!"

"After that non-breakfast you made me eat, I might just be able to manage that," Dean mused thoughtfully.

"Dean, ice-cream is not a sensible dietary supplement!" Sam spluttered in exasperation. "It's nutritionally unsound, and should only be an occasional treat, not a second breakfast!"

"Yeah?" Dean shrugged. "Good thing I only had two, then. How was your run, weirdo?"

"Oh, God..." Sam sighed. "Pretty good, actually. A gym chain had a promotion going in a park, and was inviting people to spin a giveaway wheel. I got this." He held up a small item.

"What is that?" asked Dean, peering at it, "A watch?"

"Nope. It's a tracker." In a businesslike fashion, Sam grabbed his brother's hand, and fastened it around Dean's wrist.

"Huh?" Dean blinked at the band. "What the fuck? You're not gonna track me, bitch, what am I now, some three-year-old who's likely to run off and eat ice-cream when Mommy isn't looking?"

"An activity tracker, Dean," Sam rolled his eyes, "It tracks your activity level. It records your steps, your exercise, your heart rate – it can keep track of what you do, so you can monitor your progress."

"Hey!" Dean snapped angrily, "In case you forgot, there's only one Big Brother here, and that's me, so you can stop channelling the Head Coach Within and take your tracker and shove it where it may record your steps even if it can't track just how funny you'll be walkin'..." His outrage petered out when he saw the look on his baby brother's face.

Sam was gazing forlornly at him with concerned puppy dog eyes.

"It's supposed to help you," he said quietly. "This whole try to be sensible about your health thing, I can see it's really hard for you. It's a completely alien concept, and it's getting you down. I thought, if this can help you keep tabs on what you're doing, it might help. Give you something concrete you can check on." He looked down at his own feet. "If you don't want it, you can sell it, they're expensive, I wouldn't even have suggested getting you one if I hadn't just won it in a giveaway, it'll fill the car's tank a couple of times, I guess, I've got the pack and stuff right here..."

"No, Sam," Dean sighed, resistance crumbling in the face of his baby brother's palpable worry. "You're probably right. It might help. I'll give it a try, and see how it goes. After all, it'll only be until I'm out of this Mr Average suit, and back into my own awesome body, right?"

"Awesome!" Sam gave him a dimpled smile, and headed for his laptop. "Why don't you call first on the shower, and I'll download the software while you clean up, then we can start getting data into it, it'll track your calorie intake and expenditure, too, and monitor your sleep quality..."

"Sure, Sam, you get right on that." Sighing inwardly, Dean headed for the bathroom. "Oh, hey, I can leave it with you while I'm..."

"It's cool, bro," Sam didn't even look up from the screen. "It's waterproof."

"That's... great."

In the shower, Dean took the opportunity to examine the tracker: it was unobtrusive, and at a casual glance would look like a watch.

"You might be trackin' me," he told the small device, "But just remember, I'm watchin' you – you snitch on me for eatin' ice-cream, and I'll use a hammer to give you a reprogramming you won't ever forget."

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"Sam, what the hell is this?"

"It's your lunch, Dean."

"Yeah, but what the fuck is it?"

"It's a chicken and salad roll."

"It feels like a brick."

"It's not a brick, jerk!"

"Where's the chicken?"

"On the bottom, probably."

"Not it's not, there's just all this lawn clippings and stuff... is this more of that haloumi anti-bacon?"

"No, that's the chicken, you moron!"

"That aint chicken."

"Yes it is!"

"No it aint. Where's the crumbs? I've had chicken sandwiches before: you get a piece of chicken, with crumbs on it."

"That's a deep fried chicken schnitzel you normally get. This is poached."

"Poached? Poached? Again with the poaching?"

"Look, it's a more nutritionally sensible way of cooking chicken than deep frying it!"

"It looks anaemic."

"Chicken is a white meat, Dean."

"So, I got a brick, with lawn clippings and anaemic racist chicken. Be still my beating taste buds."

"Why don't you just try it before you complain about it?"

"Lookin' at it tells me everything I need to know. I mean, if I said to you, why don't you jump off that cliff, it might be fun, hey, don't knock it 'til you've tried it, would you do it?"

"That's a completely different thing! Look, it's just a damned sandwich!"

"Are you sure it's not mixed up with yours?"

"Yes."

"Bullshit, this is typical Francis food, you've mixed 'em up, gimme that box..."

"DEAN!"

"Aha! Something went crunch! You been holdin' out on me, Sam, you bitch."

"Dean, get your hands out of my lunch!"

"Ohhh yeah, Mr Nutritionally Sound has chips in his lunch! You hypocrite!"

"Dean, they're not exactly chips..."

"That's exactly what they are, Sam, and they're mine now, so you just eat your chicken brick, and I'll have crunchy snack goodness... _kaaaaaaaark... pthaaaaaark_ "

"I warned you, bro."

"Jesus H. Christ, _chaaaaark_ what the fuck is that?"

"Kale chips."

"Are they even legal? Aren't there international laws against chemical munitions?"

"Dean, stop being such a drama queen! It's food! It's nutritionally sound food! It's not deep fried, it's not full of corn syrup or saturated fat, it's actual real food! So shut up, and eat it."

"Yeah, yeah, right, okay, gimme my chicken brick."

"No way, you wanted mine, you've shoved your hands into it, and you just spat a mouthful of chewed-up kale chips into it. It's yours now."

"Oh, fuck, what the hell is it?"

"It's a chicken salad."

"We're talkin' poached chicken here, aren't we?"

"Yes, we are."

"What's that thing?"

"It's a chick pea. Fibre, protein and micronutrients. And they taste pretty good."

"This snow pea isn't cooked."

"You can eat 'em raw. They're better that way, sweet and crunchy."

"This won't be enough for me, I'll still be hungry afterwards!"

"Well, you can have a snack if you're still hungry later."

"You got snacks?"

"Yeah, Dean, I got snacks."

"Awesome! Hey, I'll start with snacks, then, if Mr Food Nazi doesn't mind."

"Go ahead, then."

"Oh, I will, little brother, I will, just let me... dafuq is this?"

"Snacks, bro. Apples, almonds and yoghurt."

"You are a great big gigantic weirdo freak and my stomach hates you."

"Whatever."

"My tastebuds hate you even more."

"Tell your tastebuds I don't give a fuck."

"You're stressing me out here, you know. Stressing people out can give them heart attacks."

"Dean..."

"I could have a kale-induced heart attack, and die."

"Dean..."

"How will you feel then, huh, knowing that you saladed me to death?"

"Well, I'll be devastated and emotionally wrecked to lose my big brother, I will barely be able to see through the tears as I tenderly convey your lifeless body back to Bobby's, and I will collapse with grief whilst building your pyre, and possibly lapse into a prolonged and inconsolable bereavement afterwards during which I will lie curled on the floor clutching your jacket and calling for my big brother – but on the upside, the only whining I'll have to listen to will be the sound of Jimi as he noses sadly at your vitamin-packed corpse, so there's a silver lining. And every year afterwards, on the anniversary of your death, I'll toast your memory with a bottle of kombucha."

"Bitch."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Later, as Dean fidgeted and watched some Dr Sexy reruns in order to help him 'recover from the mental trauma of so-called lunch', Sam was still peering at his screen, keys rattling.

"Fuck!" Sam suddenly sat up.

"What?" Dean looked up. "Sam, what's wrong?"

"Wrong?" Sam looked up at his brother, eyes wide. "Nothing's wrong, bro, something's... fuck, I don't believe it... I'm in."

"In? In what?" demanded Dean.

"The system. The database. The intranet. Whatever you want to call it, I'm in." He turned the computer around. "I had a background script running, something I've been messing around with, trying out random likely words, on the off chance that somebody doesn't think very much about their password, because there's nothing to lose, and, well, bingo. I'm in." He paused. "I don't believe it. It worked."

"Attaboy, Sammy," Dean grinned, "Your research fu comes through. We should go and get a drink to celebrate!"

"No," Sam stated, "If you want a cold drink, there's kombucha in the fridge."

"Sam, I can't drink that stuff! I looked it up. It's made by a thing that looks like a giant booger!"

"It's called a scoby," Sam didn't lift his eyes from the screen.

"Well, at the very least, you gotta eat," Dean pointed out. "C'mon, we gotta go out!"

"Dean, I've just managed to get into the database, where I can..."

"We've been cooped up in here all day," Dean complained.

"No we haven't – I went for a run, you went for a whiskey-alpha-lima-kilo with the delta-oscar-golf, we sat outside for lunch..."

"That doesn't count," Dean said promptly.

"Yeah it does."

"It wasn't a proper lunch anyway," Dean griped resentfully.

"Dean, you cannot go out drinking in that body, you know that. We can order something, and..."

"I don't wanna order in!" Dean came perilously close to whining. "I wanna go out!"

Sam looked at his brother. "You can't have cabin fever already," he mused aloud, "I know you have a short attention span, but we're working a job here, and..."

"There's no beer here!" Dean almost pouted.

"Like I said, there's drinks, if your thirsty."

"There's no pool tables here!"

"I really don't think hustling is a good idea until you're yourself again, bro, given what happened last time."

"There's no hot women here!" Dean burst out.

Sam blinked at him. "What?"

"There's no hot women," Dean repeated, "The hot women are all out there, Sam. There are none in here."

"Oh, God," Sam pinched the bridge of his nose, "Dean, you know what's going to happen if you use your usual approach to hot women while you're not exactly yourself: you'll get called a creep, you'll get slapped, you'll get punched, or you'll get arrested, or some permutation or combination of all three."

"But, but..." Dean looked forlorn, "How the hell do I engage in beautiful natural acts if I can't find a hot woman? A man has needs! I need to get laid, Sam!"

"You need to...?" Sam's look of incredulity morphed into a Bitchface #3™ (I Wish You'd Let Your Upstairs Brain Drive More Often). "Jesus, Dean, how old are you, nineteen?"

"This is serious, Sam."

"This is ridiculous, Dean."

"You'll pitch a bitch fit if I use your wash in the shower..."

"For the last time, human beings cannot die from lack of sex!" Sam snapped. "And stay the hell away from my stuff!"

"Ordinary human beings, maybe," Dean griped sullenly, "But the Living Sex God is not an ordinary man!"

"Right now, he is," Sam countered brutally, "Right now, he's Mr Joe Average, he's about as ordinary as it's possible to be, and unfortunately that means that no hot woman is going to be interested in a casual hook-up with you."

"But... I'm still me on the inside," Dean protested, "I'm still _me_ in here, I know how to get the ladies where they want to go, just because I don't look like myself doesn't mean I'm not still myself inside..."

"They don't know that," Sam went on, stung into exasperation-powered frankness by his big brother's fornication fixation. "And they don't care. Getting to know somebody, talking to them, that's when what's on the inside matters. Casual hook-up? Come on, you know exactly how that works. You're looking for obligation-free mutual gratification, no strings attached."

"But how do they know who's able to provide that gratification just by looking?" demanded Dean.

"I have no idea," Sam shot back with a humourless smile. "I'm not a frisky woman looking for a one night stand. But apparently, being physically attractive on the outside is part of the fun of a fling. How do you pick a potential partner? You start with hotness, right?"

"Well, yeah, but..." Dean's voice petered out, and he looked bemused. "But... what about, you know, other guys? Guys who aren't as hot as me? Real me, I mean, not Mr Average me."

"I don't _know_ , Dean!" Sam snapped, "I'm not an expert on casual sex! That's your area!"

"When I'm me, yeah, but right now I'm not!" Dean complained, "What I normally do doesn't work! So what do I do?"

"I – DON'T – KNOW!" Sam yelled, before taking a deep breath and visibly calming himself. "I don't know, Dean. You'd have to ask an average guy about it. Or observe one in the wild. I cannot help you with this." He saw the crestfallen look on his brother's face. "Look, the sooner we figure this out, the sooner you are back to yourself, the sooner you can get back to your beautiful natural acts with hot women, right?"

"Yeah," sighed Dean.

"So, the sooner we do that, the sooner you get laid, okay?"

"Yeah, yeah," Dean grumbled, starting up the other laptop.

"Right. Good. So, hey, connect to this router, the password was easy to guess and they've got really good speed..."

Dean sat, looking glum but determined, as he pecked at the keys. Taking pity on his brother, Sam ordered them pizza (although he vetoed stuffed crust, extra cheese and Meat Lovers).

Pizza seemed to improve Dean's mood, even if it was considerably less nutritionally unsound than what he usually preferred, and by the time the sun set, he was smiling again as he picked up his keys.

"I'm goin' out, Sammy, I may be some time."

"Dean," Sam eyed his brother warily, "Please tell me you're not going out to drink a bar dry."

"Not completely, I promise," his big brother grinned.

"Maybe I should come with you if you're determined to go hustling..."

"Nope," Dean cut him off, "Not tonight. I've been sensible all day, I deserve a little fun tonight. Don't wait up."

Sam heard the Impala start, and pull out of the lot. He exchanged a look with the dog.

"I don't remember anything about sudden cholesterol withdrawal affecting mental capacity, but I'm starting to wonder."

"Rumph," went Jimi, settling onto his blanket for some snoozing.

With a shrug, Sam turned back to his laptop – if the dog wasn't worried, he probably shouldn't be, either.

A short time later, wanting to cross-check something but not wanting to close the window he was looking at, he snagged the laptop Dean had been using. The last search Dean had performed was still on the screen.

"Oh, fuck, no..."

* * *

What is Dean up to? Do we want to know? If the answer is yes, send reviews to power little Beau-Ponty along! (If the answer is no, send reviews anyway).


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter Eleven**

Sam considered his options: as far as he could see, they were:

a) Take Jimi, track Dean, lock him in the trunk and drag him back

b) Take Jimi, track Dean, watch his brother's back to make sure he didn't get the crap beaten out of him

c) Take Jimi, track Dean, watch his brother's back until it looked like he was going to get the crap beaten out of him then lock him in the trunk and drag him back

or

d) Let nature take its course, and deal with the aftermath afterwards.

He sat back, stretched and sighed. "So, what do we do, Jimi?" he asked the dog.

"Hrrrrrrmph." Jimi half-opened his eyes to see if there were any more pizza crusts being offered, yawned extravagantly, and rolled over with a drawn out sigh.

"Yeah, you're probably right," he agreed. His big brother would not thank him for any perceived interfering, mother-henning or cock-blocking. Trying to save Dean from himself was like trying to help a cat stuck up a tree: you'd get scratched to pieces, bitten repeatedly, possibly lose an eye, and then the angry rescuee would run up to a higher branch. And piss on you from up there. And it would never, ever, ever concede that running up the tree had been a bad idea in the first place.

He worked for a while longer until he decided his brain had had enough, then when he found a really interesting Attenborough documentary on TV, he decided he'd made the right choice. After that he checked a couple of local news sites just to make sure that Dean hadn't happened anywhere, then headed for the bathroom, where he was amazed to find that his timing was just right and he had a hot shower with pretty good water pressure, given the quality of the accommodation.

He was in bed when Jimi headed for the door and let out a couple of happy whuffs of anticipation. Sam roused and checked his watch; it was a bit early for Dean to be returning after an evening of seeking out frisky women for beautiful natural acts, but Jimi was never wrong, he could always detect the approach of the Impala before human ears could.

A minute later, the car's familiar gurgling rumble pulled into the lot, and Dean made his way quietly into the room.

"You're home early," Sam said.

"And you're up late," his brother replied. "Go back to sleep, Francis, you need your beauty rest."

Sam frowned. Usually, when his brother returned from an evening of pornoriffic desportment, the annoying cheerfulness, the leer, the gleeful anticipation of horrifying his baby brother the next day with the details positively bubbled in his voice. But right then, it wasn't there.

Sam sat up, and watched his brother in the darkness. Realisation hit him: Dean was not doing the Strut Of Smug Self-Satisfaction that he always did upon return (as Dean Winchester had never done a Walk Of Shame in his entire life). "Dean?"

"The one and only, Sam."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Dean insisted, "Apart from the fact that you're awake, and at risk of turning back into a lettuce after midnight, so go back to sleep, bitch."

Rolling his eyes at his brother's ridiculous stoicism, Sam reached for the light switch. "No, seriously, bro, what's wrong, did so- HOLY SHIT!"

As the light snapped on, Dean froze, momentarily caught like a rabbit in a spotlight.

Well, if there was such a thing as a rabbit with a bright red face.

"What happened to you?" Sam burst out.

"Nothing," Dean mumbled, sitting down to pull off his boots.

"What do you mean, nothing? Your face is bright red, bro!"

"It's fine," Dean snapped, "It's probably just emerging sunburn from bein' thrown out and told to go for a whiskey-word. Go back to sleep."

Sam fixed his brother with a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child). "I saw the search you were doing before you left."

Dean froze.

"And the browser history."

Dean didn't move.

"Interesting sites. 'How To Pick Up Women?' 'Hints From The Pick-Up Guru?' 'The Pick-Up Artist Channel'? And now you've come home looking like a tomato."

Dean stared at his boots.

"What happened, Dean?"

"Igtslpd," Dean mumbled.

"What?"

"Igtslpd," Dean repeated, kicking off a boot.

"Once more, bro, in English, maybe, or at least with a couple of vowels thrown in."

"I got slapped, okay?" Dean snapped, kicking off the other boot irritably. "I went out, I went to a bar, I met up with a woman, and I got slapped."

"You went to a bar, you met up with a woman, and she slapped you?" echoed Sam.

"Yeah."

"How many?"

"Three."

"She slapped you three times?"

"No, I went to three bars."

"No, I meant, how many times did she slap you?"

"Just once."

"Once? Dean, your face is bright red! What the hell was she, an octopus?"

"Well, it happened with the second one, too."

"The second bar or the second woman?"

"The second woman."

"You got slapped by a second woman?"

"Yeah. Actually, it happened in the second bar as well."

"The second woman, in the second bar?"

"No, by the second bar, I was up to the sixth woman."

"A sixth woman?'

"Yeah."

"How many, Dean?"

"I told you, I went to three bars!'

"No, how many times did you get slapped?"

"Just once each, I know how to take a hint."

"No, no, _no_ , how many _women_ did you approach, Dean?"

"Uh, it was quite a few."

"Quite a few?"

"I lost count, okay?"

"And they all slapped you."

"No! No! Not all of them!"

"They didn't all slap you?"

"No, they did not!"

"It looks like they did."

"Well, they didn't. The last one didn't."

"The last woman you approached didn't slap you?"

"No, she didn't."

"You used some of the crap you found on those sites of dubious content, and she didn't slap you?"

"That's correct, she did not slap me."

"Hell, she must've been drunk, because..."

"She kneed me in the balls."

"Oh, God," Sam sat down heavily next to his despondent brother. "Look, the sorts of things those sites were suggesting, they're crap! Not just demeaning to women, but bordering on downright offensive, if not actually abusive, they're crap! I mean, that guy who says that approaching a beautiful woman and making some negative comment about her appearance will somehow motivate her to have sex with you, did you seriously think that would work? No wonder you got slapped!"

"I didn't just go around insulting women," Dean seemed shocked at the suggestion.

"Oh, really?" Sam scowled, "And the 'Get in touch with your Inner Caveman', how did that work out?"

"Uh, not so good," his big brother shrugged, "But I don't think I'll sing soprano indefinitely."

"Look, Dean," Sam tried to keep his tone non-judgemental, and almost succeeded, "You're just going to have to live with the fact that women you classify as 'hot' don't generally want to hook up for casual sex with a guy who looks like you."

"I guess," sighed Dean, sounding forlorn. "So, what do I do?"

"Well, if you could concentrate on what you've been doing, I know that trawling through social media is tedious, but you are actually making progress, and..."

"No, Sam, what I mean is, how do I get laid?"

" _What?"_

"You heard me! How do I get laid? How do I find a woman to have sex with?"

"Gaaaaaaah!" Sam let out an exasperated yelp. "I don't know! All I do know is, you can't carry on as if you're the Living Sex God, when for now, you're not!" He paused. "Have you considered, uh, kind of, lowering the bar a little?"

"Whaddya mean?"

"Making your selection criteria less stringent," Sam continued. "Being more open-minded about your interpretation of the concept of 'hotness'. Considering the broadening of the pool of potential partners."

Dean gave him a dubious look. "You mean... have sex with a woman who isn't hot?"

Praying for patience, Sam tried again. "Look, Dean, you are a man who wants to have sex with a woman. For that, you have to find a woman who is willing to have sex with you, without getting her drunk first..."

"Well, yeah," Dean cut in, "Of course, there is no way, no way, I would ever force myself on a chick, you know that, no real man would ever do that, and no drunk chicks is one of my rules, I taught you that when you were a teenager..."

"Yeah, that's a given," Sam assured him, "What I'm getting at, is, if you are temporarily not your normal devastatingly attractive and hot self, then you might just have to approach a woman who is, herself, not exactly what you would usually define as devastating attractive and hot."

"You mean..." Dean looked mystified. "Hook up with an ugly chick?"

Sam gave Dean a level stare. "Okay, let's set aside any outrage about the shallowness you display about this sort of thing, and be brutally practical. Right now, you are no oil painting. You are a very ordinary, completely average looking guy. You're telling me that you don't want to have a one night stand with a woman who isn't hot. Well, news flash, Dean, hot women don't want to have one night stands with a guy who isn't hot! Hot people can pick and choose each other, Dean, but if you just want casual sex, right now, you can't!"

"But..." Dean looked bewildered. "How do, you know, guys who look like me hook up? How do average guys get laid?"

Sam rolled his eyes, grasping desperately at his rapidly waning patience. "I suspect that they go out looking for a like-minded woman who's as average-looking as they are. I'm pretty sure that frisky is a state of mind, Dean, and frisky women come in all shapes and sizes. Look at it this way, your population of available partners is expanded." Exasperation made him twist the knife a little. "It's okay if you have a few drinks first, though, maybe beer goggles will help."

"Beer goggles?" repeated Dean.

"Yep," Sam beamed at him, "A team at Edinburgh University did a study, and quantified the degree to which a member of the opposite sex appears more attractive the drunker the observer is. Don't remember which lab it was, but it was clearly in the School Of Studies Of The Fucking Obvious."

Dean's face was that of a child who has been at the fairground asking for a helium balloon all day, only to lose his grip and watch it float rapidly, effortlessly, uncaringly away from him. "I... don't know if I can do that," he said finally.

Sam's patience snapped. "Oh, for fuck's sake," he shouted, "What is _wrong_ with you? Your health is so compromised that you could _die_ before we fix this, and all you can think about is _sex_? You're so desperate to get laid, you don't care about your own wellbeing enough to concentrate on this job? You are _impossible_! You are _unreasonable_! You are INSUFFERABLE! YOU ARE AN UNREPENTANT NARCISSIST AND TOTALLY PATHOLOGICALLY OBSESSED WITH SEX! And you'll just have to learn to be _less fucking choosy,_ or GO WITHOUT! Why the hell does it matter what she looks like if all you are interested in is the sex? Turn the lights off! Shut your eyes! Fantasise about somebody else! If you are so damned desperate, just stop being so _picky_ and go out and _do it_ and stop _whining_! Just go out and get laid, Dean! Go out and have sex, Dean! Go out and fornicate! Go out and screw! Go out and find a willing woman and put your penis in her vagina! Just go out and fuck and STOP BITCHING TO ME ABOUT IT BECAUSE I CAN'T HELP YOU AND I DON'T WANT TO HEAR ABOUT IT!"

In the sudden silence when he finished, both Dean and Jimi were staring at him.

"Wow," breathed Dean, "Stress much? This job is getting to you. You need to get laid, Sam."

Sam let out a groan and fell face-first into his pillow. "What I need," his muffled voice said, "Is to beat you around the head with a blunt object until you see sense, or shut up, whatever happens first. Or even if you don't, that doesn't matter, it will make me feel better."

"Maybe things will look better for both of us in the morning," Dean surmised philosophically. "Or at least, later in the morning." Heading for the bathroom, he paused, and waggled his wrist. "Hey, sex would count as a cardio workout, right? Does this thing track sex? RPM, or something?

"Dean..."

"Because if it does, there's a distinct change that at some point I might make it explode."

"I hate you."

* * *

Poor Dean. Poor Sam. I'm not sure who's going to end up being more traumatised by this job. But it's fun to watch.

Send Beau-Ponty delicious reviews to snack on, because Reviews Are The Delicious Chocolate-Hazelnut Clusters Plucked From The Broccoli Patch Of Life!


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter Twelve**

"Sam, what the hell is this?"

"It's your breakfast, Dean."

"It's structurally unsound."

"It's scrambled eggs, Dean."

"What's that green stuff in it?"

"Spinach."

"What the hell? When the fuck did I change my name to Popeye?"

"Oh, God..."

"Why is it all soggy?"

"It's wilted, Dean."

"Wilted? That's a thing? It's bad enough you make me eat fresh vegetable matter, now I don't even get fresh stuff, I gotta get the wilted leftovers?"

"Wilted in a frying pan, Dean! Cooked quickly!"

"So, where the fuck is the bacon, Olive Oyl?"

"Look, I am _not_ having this conversation with you every damned time we get something to eat. Shut up and eat, or go hungry, choice is yours."

"Oh, so now you don't care if I starve to death?"

"Right now, as long as you do it quietly, no."

"I want coffee."

"No more coffee. Order some tea."

"I don't want tea. I want pie."

"You are not having pie for breakfast."

"Who are you, my mother?"

"Who are _you_ , my three-year-old?"

"Look, I have to fuel my brain up for more research."

"Okay, yeah, trawling through Facebook can be pretty draining, so on the way back we'll get you some..."

"No, no, I mean researching how to get laid!"

"Ah. Of course. How could I have gotten our priorities so messed up?"

"You're probably faint from lack of proper food."

"This is proper food!"

"No it aint. What I usually eat is proper food. What this body wants is proper food."

"All right, then, if this isn't 'proper' food, and what _that_ body wants to eat _is_ 'proper' food, why is it that I look like this, and it looks like that?"

"Awesomeness genes."

"There's no such thing."

"Course there is, and you inherited them from me, because I'm your brother."

"Dean, NOBODY inherits genes from a brother! Maybe very very occasionally it's happened in the most broad-minded parts of the Appalachians, but otherwise, it's impossible!"

"Well, it's probably because I spent so much time and energy raising you, making sure you had everything you needed to grow into a healthy Sasquatch from when you were six months old..."

"Oh, great, here we go."

"Lavished care and attention on you, my baby brother, because you were more important to me than anything else, even the car..."

"High praise indeed."

"I lied for you, I stole for you, I shoved ice-cold jars of pears and custard down my pants for you..."

"Oh the sacrifice."

"Hey, do not ever underestimate the grim determination and steely resolve required to shove jars of chilled baby food down your pants. Have you ever done that? Ever shoved something that cold down your pants?"

"Well, there was that time you dumped the contents of the ice bucket in my lap."

"You were on fire, bro."

"Only because you got careless doing flaming shots!"

"Totally different. My point is, I took care of you when you were just a kid, and even now I hustle pool and scam credit card companies to keep you in lettuce and shampoo – the least you could do is let me have a piece of pie."

"Think of it as me returning some of the care you lavished on me – I have only your well-being in mind, and your best interests at heart."

"Sam, you can't expect me to eat this crap, then spend the day doin' research!"

"I don't. I expect you to eat it, then take the dog for a walk, _then_ do some research. And when you get back, we'll download your data from your tracker, and see if you've improved on yesterday."

"Whaddya mean, improve on yesterday?"

"Well, it was more of a stroll than a walk, bro."

"No it wasn't!"

"Yeah it was. Plus there was ice-cream."

"How would you know? You weren't there."

"I downloaded your data this morning."

"WHAT?"

"It can be done remotely, over a short distance, so I did it while you were getting dressed. You strolled. Or maybe 'dawdled' is a better word."

"You're using that thing to spy on me!"

"No, I'm using it to see how active you've been, how far you went. Not enough steps, bro."

"I hate you."

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Dean insisted on doing some research before heading out for his constitutional, and even went outside to make phone call. He came back in looking unhappy.

"Lead petered out?" asked Sam.

"Pretty much," Dean sighed. "At least I didn't get laughed at."

"What?" Sam looked up, mystified. "By who?"

"Andrew," Dean replied. "Andrew Jaeger."

"Andrew?" Sam echoed with incomprehension.

"Yeah, you know," Dean waved a hand just above his own head, "About this tall, wears his hair in a hippy drippy ponytail, looks perpetually bemused, would rather turn an ankle than step on a mouse, sees the best in everybody, turns into a monster capable of flipping medium sized cars and disembowelling just about anything with his bare hands – or paws, really – at every full moon, gets ridiculously possessive over potato pancakes, that Andrew."

Sam blinked. "Why did you call him?"

"Well, I'm looking for advice on how to hook up with unhot chicks, right?" Dean reasoned.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, "So, you wanted some nice-guy pointers from an original nice guy, is that it?"

"Well, actually, I wanted some pointers from someone who's clearly an expert in having sex with unhot chicks," Dean shrugged, "I mean, Ronnie's about the most unhot chick you could find, and he managed to hook up with her, and..."

"Dean!" Sam snapped, giving his big brother a mortified Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled, Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). That's... that's..."

"Thinking outside the box?" suggested Dean brightly.

"Totally appalling!" Sam yapped. "The situation was completely different! Andrew wasn't looking for a one-night-stand, he was attracted to her as an individual! The whole package, who she is, not just what she looks like on the outside."

"God knows why," Dean sniffed disdainfully, "I mean, she looks more like a guy than he does, her arms are at least as big as his, you could at best be charitable and describe her as 'striking', if only because she gives the general impression that she'd like to hit you..."

"That wasn't what he saw," Sam scowled, "When werewolves pair up, they look for somebody they can be with for life. He was looking for something more than an attractive veneer – he was looking for, and found, a mate, a pair-bond, another half for a relationship, a lasting partnership, somebody he could spend his life with."

"Yeah, he wasn't much help," Dean sighed.

"Talking about inner beauty, intangible qualities, personality and other things you usually don't concern yourself with?" Sam asked snidely.

"Nope. Actually, he, uh, growled at me, then hung up."

"That's because he's a decent person," Sam declared in grim triumph, "Who was no doubt saddened, appalled and affronted to have his pair-bonded mate referred to so casually as 'unhot', whereas you are a serial one-night-standist who's as shallow as a redneck gene pool..."

"Yeah, thanks for that, Dr Phil," grumbled Dean. "So, we've still made no progress."

"Actually, I think I might have..."

"No, no, no, I mean, I'm no closer to getting laid!" snapped Dean.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Sam took a deep breath. "Have you ever considered just asking nicely?"

Dean stared at him. "Asking nicely?"

"Yeah. Just... asking nicely. Politely. Leaving out the leering, the smirking, the pick-up lines, the arrogant assumption that she can't possibly refuse, and just find a woman who's maybe not size 00 Vogue catwalk material but has something about her that you like, tell her that you find her attractive, and sexy as hell, and ask nicely? It's worked for me," he added.

"What? When?" demanded Dean.

"Here and there," Sam shrugged nonchalantly. "It's probably the one approach you've never tried."

Dean looked thoughtful. "You really think that would work?"

"You got nothing to lose," Sam pointed out. "At worst, you're unlikely to get slapped for trying to be nice. Look, why don't you think about it whilst you take the delta-oscar-golf for his whiskey-word?"

"Hmmmmmm." Dean made a non-committal noise as he grappled with the novel concept. "Yeah, maybe. Come on then, J-Man," he called to the dog, "You wanna go out for a walk, huh, out for a walk? I'd say that's a yes," he decided, as Jimi woofed happily and spun around on the spot.

"I might head out for a run, too," Sam mused, standing up and stretching, "Before it gets too hot."

"Don't overheat that brain," cautioned Dean, picking up Jimi's lead, "We need it on this job, to get me back to my awesome self. Oh yeah, and find out what's killing hot guys."

"Of course," grunted Sam, "Saving people, Hunting things, getting Dean laid – it's the family business."

"Bitch."

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Later in the day, Sam took a moment to download Dean's tracker data.

"Hey, you went further than yesterday," he noted, smiling, "And took about twenty-five percent more steps!"

"Well, you're so keen on this health thing, the path of least resistance seems to be the easiest way to shut you up about it," Dean muttered.

"No, seriously, Dean, that's a really good effort," Sam went on. "And it might even help that body. Get those endorphins flowing."

"The what?"

"Endorphins," Sam repeated, "Your body's in-house feel-good chemicals. It's why you feel so good after exercise."

"Well, of _course_ you feel good _after_ exercise," Dean scoffed, "Because you've _stopped_."

"No, seriously, they're mood lifters. Might even help you feel less, uh, average. Seriously, well done, bro."

"Can we celebrate my achievement by goin' to a bar tonight?" asked Dean hopefully.

"If you promise me you won't act like a jerk and get yourself slapped," Sam stipulated.

"No, no, definitely not," Dean said firmly, "I've been thinkin' about what you said, about askin' nicely? Not bein' arrogant about it? I can do that."

"You think?" Sam asked doubtfully.

"Sure! Look, it's like, it's like different fuglies, right?" Dean appeared to be warming to a theme. "The same thing won't work on every type of monster. Holy water won't work on a werewolf, dead man's blood won't work on a rugaru, consecrated iron won't work on a wendigo, and a devil's trap won't stop a zombie – every job needs a different weapon, and different tactics. And right now, I just don't have the right weapon to use the usual tactics..."

"Not really sure I like the analogy of bedding women as a Hunt," Sam mused.

"Look, just go with me on this, okay? If you don't have silver rounds, you don't chase a werewolf. If you don't have a stake you don't chase a zombie. Right now, I don't have the right hardware to chase really hot women. So, I gotta find a Hunt I can finish with what I've got. Which, frankly, aint much."

Sam gave him a dubious look.

"Besides," Dean looked thoughtful, "I'm still _me_ inside. I still know everything that I know. Okay, my Ferrari might temporarily be impounded, and I'm drivin' around in a Civic, but I still know how to drive, and I'm betting I can make that Civic do things that most drivers can't..."

"Metaphor of you as car, strangely appropriate," commented Sam.

"And ultimately, whatever model I'm drivin', I know how to take the scenic route, and let the ladies enjoy the drive, and get 'em to their final destination."

"Okay, sex as road trip, less comfortable with that," Sam noted.

"And is it really fair to withhold the inner talents of the Living Sex God from the less hot ladies?" Dean posed earnestly. "The hot women might not know what they're missing out on, but that's their loss, and their less hot sisters' gain, right?"

"Your capacity for being magnanimous is astounding," Sam answered in a level tone.

"I know, right? That's just the awesome kind of guy I am." Dean smiled winningly. "So, bar, booze – yeah, yeah, not too much, I get it, Samantha – and bedding babes. You can find one too," he offered.

"Gee, your generosity knows no bounds," gasped Sam in mock awe.

"Shut up, bitch. So, let's go eat. On, and just for info, if there isn't a decent sized chunk of dead animal in mine, I will hurt you."

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The evening found the Winchesters in a bar that Dean had not already visited, lest he be recognised and get his face slapped again on general principles. Sam watched as the camouflaged Living Sex God played some pool, played some darts, and ended up buying a drink for, and actually talking to, a woman.

She wasn't one of the hottest women in the bar, and ordinarily Dean probably wouldn't have given her a second glance when there was thinner, prettier, more scantily clad female flesh on show, but Sam thought that she had an attractively womanly figure, and a lovely smile.

Some sort of agreement seemed to have been agreed when she let out a laugh of real amusement, reached out to brush a speck of something off Dean's jacket, and smiled at him.

A moment later, she left with his brother; Dean gave him a brief and surreptitious thumbs up as they left the bar, and a couple of minutes later he received a text.

 _ **Don't wait up**_

Sam let out a sigh of relief. Hopefully, after an evening of beautiful natural acts, his brother would be less annoying.

Well, he'd still be annoying, but he'd be annoying in a less annoyingly annoying way.

He finished his own drink, and headed for the car, anticipating a quiet evening of research, and maybe an engaging documentary on cable.

On the way back to the room, he stopped to pick up more kombucha. Not only was he able to get it at a heavily discounted price, but the store next to it had a pair of high end trainers in his size in the window at cost price because of a small mark on one, and the drugstore on the other was doing a clearance sale on his favourite shampoo and shower wash.

* * *

I hope everybody had a happy Mardi Gras (as in, Pancake Tuesday). What are you giving up for Lent? I'm giving up hippopotamus rides.

So, maybe Dean will shut up now... or will he? How will the Living Sex God fare in his Honda Civic? At least Sam can wash his hair in peace tonight.

Poor little Beau-Ponty the plot bunny loves your reviews, they make him dictate further chapters, so feed him! Reviews are the Delicious Pancakes On The Fat Tuesday Of Life!


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter Thirteen**

Sam had returned to their room from his own breakfast and was brushing his teeth when Jimi's happy whuffs indicated that Dean was on his way back; a minute later he heard a car stop outside their cruddy motel, honk twice then take off again. A moment later, Dean let himself in.

"Hey, J-Man," he heard Dean greet the dog, who greeted his Alpha enthusiastically.

"I'm done in here, if you want to use the bathroom," announced Sam as he finished up. "And frankly I'd rather you bathed than slouch around reeking of sex, because I've just had brea-" He broke off when he saw his brother's face.

It reminded him of the expression that Jimi wore when he thought he was being offered a treat, but it turned out to be a worming tablet.

"Jesus, Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean dropped heavily onto the sagging sofa. "Oh, God, where do I even start?"

"Did you get your face slapped again?" asked Sam.

"Oh, no, nothin' like that," Dean smiled ruefully. "Your approach worked perfectly."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. She's an adjunct professor in Earth Sciences. I bought her a drink, I told her she had a lovely smile, I told her I liked the sound of her laugh, she made a comment about her weight and I told her that there aint nothin' wrong with a woman who's not anorexic if it means there's more of 'em to love, I told her that her curves were a turn-on, I told her that intelligent is the new skinny, and honestly, close up, she was kind of attractive, it's like she had that whole Earth Mother fertility vibe happening..."

"So, what happened? You left with her, did she change her mind about taking you home?"

"No, not at all, we went back to her place."

"So, what, did she change her mind about having sex?"

"Oh, no, she was all for it."

"So, why the long face? Did she throw you out afterwards?"

"No, no, she was happy for me to stay the night, made me breakfast this morning, pancakes, shut up, bitch, they were really good, and dropped me off just now, with an invitation to look her up anytime I was passing through town again."

"So, why do you look like a kicked puppy?" asked Sam, exasperated. "For fuck's sake, Dean, you've been going on and on about getting laid, you finally get laid, and now you're..." he paused. "Uh, you did have sex, didn't you?"

"Course we had sex!" Dean scoffed disdainfully. "I may not be my usually devastatingly hot self right now, shut up, false modesty sucks, dude, but I'm still the Living Sex God on the inside, I'm the chassis of a Honda Civic with a V8 of American iron under the hood, so we got back to her place, and we talked some more, and we had a drink, and then I, uh, commenced ignition sequence, so to speak, and we set off for a long, scenic drive..."

"Oh, not the car thing again."

"...And I showed her the sights, the long way round, and took her to a couple of destinations..."

"Actually, as Chicks I Have Banged stories go, this whole metaphor thing might not be so bad."

"...And she said she really liked the route we took, and she'd never had a driver who paid so much attention to the local geography..."

"In fact if you could frame all future reports of your beautiful natural acts in euphemism, I'd be grateful, because..." Sam paused, taking in the mournful look on Dean's face. "So, you found a willing woman, you had sex, why do you look like Bobby's just told you there's no more bacon in the house?"

There was a long pause. "Well, there was, uh, a, uh, problem."

"What sort of problem?" pressed Sam. "Oh no, she didn't have a flatmate who came home unexpectedly, did she? God, that happened to me once, I was mortified when the lights came on..."

"No."

"Jesus, it wasn't a boyfriend she was two-timing, was it? I swear, if I wasn't the size I am, I probably would've gotten my face punched in, that one time."

"No, no, nothing like that."

"Cat suddenly jumped on the bed and interrupted proceedings? Man, I know how that can put you off your game in an instant."

"No."

"No?" Sam was concerned; if Dean didn't immediately demand the prurient details of the occasions when Sam had actually been engaging in intimate congress with a like-minded lady and was interrupted by an unexpected roomie, a betrayed boyfriend, or a pesky pet, something was really wrong. "Dean, why are you so unhappy?"

"It was a great road trip, Sam," Dean sighed, "She enjoyed it a lot. And so did I. But..."

"But?" Sam prompted his brother.

"Well, you know that Honda Civic? The memory of the GPS worked just fine, but," Dean swallowed. "There was a... mechanical problem."

"A mechanical problem?"

Dean looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him. "A problem with the, uh... hydraulics."

Sam stared at him for a moment before the penny dropped.

"Oh. _Oh_." He gawped for a moment, then looked confused. "But didn't you just say you took her on a long and, er, scenic trip...?"

"Course I did," Dean gathered the tattered shreds of his manly dignity about himself. "I'm still Dean Winchester, bro."

"But are you saying that you... and you didn't... and it didn't...and you didn't..."

A guy needs more than a just a dick to have good sex, Sam," Dean snapped angrily. "I thought I taught you better than that, and if I didn't, then you are dead to me."

"Okay! Okay! I'm sorry!" Sam held up his hands in a placatory fashion. "I didn't mean to imply that you, uh... okay. Really?"

"It's never happened to me before," Dean's voice was a forlorn whisper, "Okay, since that once time when I was fifteen and that was nerves, but apart from that, this has never happened before."

Sam's mouth opened and shut a few times. "Well, it's, uh, kinda normal for it to happen sometimes." Dean turned tortured eyes to Sam. "No, really, it's not at all unusual for a guy to have, uh, you know," he waved a hand vaguely, "For all sorts of perfectly normal, ordinary reasons. It happens to most guys at some time."

"Has it ever happened to you?" asked Dean wistfully.

Sam did his goldfish impression again. "Well, uh," he began, not sure that earnest and serious adult discussion of intimate matters with his big brother was any better than the usual Chicks I Have Banged stories. "I don't, uh, I don't immediately recall, but, uh, don't forget, I don't get around as much as you do, so, so, I don't uh, I don't, um." He paused. "There was one time when I was stressed out about an exam and an assignment due the next day, and Jess suggested a bit of 'stress relief', and I was really too wound up to, uh, to, yeah."

Dean gazed at him levelly. "You just made that up now, didn't you? To try to make me feel better."

Sam's face pinked. "Yes," he answered, caught out in a blatant lie. "But seriously, the average guy will have occasions where things don't go entirely according to plan in the bedroom, it happens occasionally, and..."

"It doesn't happen to me!" Dean wailed.

Sam sighed. "Dean, I'm afraid that right now, you are Mr Average," he pointed out as gently as he could. "And that means, you might be the Living Sex God between the ears, but the chassis is all Honda Civic. And given the health problems that often accompany being overweight or pre-diabetic, and that body is having cardiac problems already, it could well have circulatory pathology compromising the, er, performance of the, uh, yeah, the performance. Um."

Dean let out a groan, and dropped his head into his hands. "And she was so nice about it," he moaned, "She was so understanding, and she tried to help, she offered to..."

"It's probably better if you try not to dwell on it," Sam cut in hurriedly, not sure that he wanted to hear any details even if his brother stuck with his car metaphor and started talking about bump-starts or bleeding the line. "So, er, am I to understand that, while you both enjoyed the drive, you didn't, er, that is, she did, but you didn't..."

Dean let out a sad whine, and fell sideways onto the sofa. "I want to die," he droned unhappily. "She was so _nice_ , and so _understanding_ , and then she wanted to _cuddle_ , because she said I was such a _sweetie_ , it was so humiliatiiiiiing."

Sam was torn between wanting to comfort his brother, and wanting to slap him upside the head for being a total drama queen. "Look, this is a temporary problem," he told Dean briskly. "This is a temporary problem, because we are gonna get you out of that Honda Civic and back into your Ferrari as soon as we can, but we have to concentrate on the job at hand. All you have to do is keep it running as well as you can until the swap, then you'll be back to your old self, and this will all be a fading memory, and, and, you can go and park in as many hot garages as you like, and I don't believe I just said that."

Dean sat up and offered his brother a wobbly smile, apparently soothed by the pep talk. "Thanks, Sam," he said, "You're right. I just gotta re-assess, and re-prioritise, then figure out the right course of action to complete the mission."

"Exactly," Sam told him firmly. "That's exactly it. Hold that thought. So, you wanna hit the head, then take the J-Man for his whiskey-alpha-lima-kilo?"

"Maybe let breakfast go down a bit," Dean replied, "Get in some research, then we'll go."

"Sounds good." Sam handed over a paper cup. "So, I got you coffee while I was out. Now, I think I've tracked down the reports on some of those guys who died..."

He looked over the top of the laptop: Dean was already logged on, and tapping furiously at the keys, concentrating on the screen. Sam smiled, and left his brother to it – ultimately, he reminded himself, Dean Winchester was a Hunter, a great Hunter, no matter what car he was driving.

* * *

There is no excuse for this chapter. The only reasons I can suggest are that:

a) Beau-Ponty the plot bunny was feeling faint from lack of reviews to nibble on

b) I'm just a horrible person.

c) I've been channelling The Puerile Thirteen-Year-Old Within since two days ago, when Australia found out that it's Air Force has taken delivery of a squadron of an aircraft called the EA-18G, otherwise known as... the Growler.

O_o

(Not sure what it means Up There in the YouSay, but Down Here, it's a slang term for... uh, in the context of this chapter, a lady's garage. You know. Where POTUS likes to grab women.)

So you can imagine my surprise as I was driving home when the radio news announced that 'Today, the RAAF used the Avalon Air Show to show off their Growlers...' Seriously, that station nearly caused a major traffic incident...

Yeah, that's it. This chapter is entirely the fault of the Royal Australian Air Force, and Radio National.

Please feed little Beau-Ponty tasty reviews so we can see what happens next, because Reviews Are The Garages... Reviews Are The Long Scenic Drives... Reviews Are The Shiny New Warplanes...

No, look, in light of this chapter, let me just say 'Please send reviews because they inspire further writing'. Thank you.

...

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Growlers.

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 _*snigger snigger*_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter Fourteen**

Even as he worked, a small part of Sam's brain marvelled at and admired Dean's resilience – having suffered the sort of personal set-back he had, Dean nevertheless got his head back into the game, concentrating on the laptop and pausing only to make occasional notes. It was only to be expected, Sam mused fondly, his brother might be capable of being a total man-slut or a complete drama queen, but when it came to the family business, Dean would always have his priorities right.

Dean sat back, stretched luxuriantly and yawned. "I think it might be time for me and Juliet-india-mike-india to go get our daily dose of cardio," he announced, standing up. "Give this tracker thing a workout so it doesn't get fat."

"Sounds good," Sam agreed, shutting down his own laptop, "Before it gets too hot."

"Do you mean the weather, or the bikini migration?" Dean's eyebrows would be capable of waggling lewdly if he was transmogrified into the body of an elderly nun.

Sam couldn't help but laugh at his brother's innate and irrepressible Deanness. "Both, I guess," he chuckled, standing up and reaching for his new trainers. "I can break these in a bit."

Dean's eyes bugged at the new shoes. "Jesus, Sam, when the fuck did you get them?"

"Last night," Sam replied, ratting through his duffle for some suitable running gear that didn't smell too bad.

"What the fuck?" spluttered Dean, "Those shoes, Sam, we and the dog and the car could eat for a fortnight and have change left over from what they cost!"

"Nuh-uh," Sam grinned, "Got 'em on special. Clearance, and there's a mark on one of 'em. Well, so they said, I couldn't really see it. I lucked out on these, and I'm not ever gonna be able to afford 'em again, so," he waggled his new shoes. "Just this once, a really decent pair of trainers."

"That's not proper Winchester luck," Dean declared. "That's anti-Winchester luck. If you were having proper Winchester luck, they'd turn out to be possessed, or something. You put 'em on, and suddenly you have this irresistible urge to Usain Bolt yourself to death."

Sam sat down to put on his new shoes, then stood up.

He conspicuously failed to set off at a sprint and continue to run at his absolute maximum effort until he dropped dead from catastrophic cardio-pulmonary failure.

"They feel really good," he noted, bouncing on his toes a few times.

"Well, if you suddenly feel like you wanna set any land speed records, stop and take 'em off," Dean specified firmly. "And maybe you might wanna stay off your top speed today."

"What? Why?" demanded Sam.

"Well, if they're possessed, the run-yourself-to-death thing might not kick in until you get to a certain speed," Dean theorised, "A bit like a scramjet, you have to get to a minimum speed before the possession kicks in, and then, whammo."

"Whammo?" echoed Sam.

"Whammo," Dean repeated grimly. "One minute you're joggin' along, the next you're Carl Lewising your way to an occult death."

"Dean, these shoes are not possessed!" Sam snapped in exasperation, "I was just lucky to notice them, and lucky to get such a ridiculously good price!"

"Well, it aint normal," Dean complained. "Luck doesn't smile on us, Sammy. Or if it seems to, it's only doin' it to try to distract us while it kicks us in the nuts."

"Okay," Sam rolled his eyes, "I will monitor myself very carefully for any sudden overwhelming urge to try for Olympic qualification." He paused, then because Dean had annoyed him, added, "Enjoy your WALK with JIMI, bro."

"Bitch," Dean called after him as the dog began to woof and jump around him in excitement. "You owe me something edible for lunch for this!"

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Sam returned to their room before Dean did, having somehow avoided being murdered by his own footwear – they were really comfortable, and despite what Dean had told him, they felt really good at top speed.

In fact, after he'd pulled up a bit from a short sprint along one side of a park, he'd paused to help a middle-aged lady whose dog had treed a squirrel, and was in The Zone, refusing to return to his owner. Firmly taking the yappy little animal by the scruff (and murmuring 'Christo', just to check, because it looked like there might be a bit of Chihuahua in there) and returning him to his worried mistress, the woman had become tearfully grateful, and pressed a business card listing a diner's details on him, inviting him for a meal on the house sometime.

"You shouldn't have done that, Sam," Dean chided him when he and Jimi returned and Sam told him that lunch was arranged, "What if you'd got bitten?"

Sam gave him a Bitchface #9™ (I Know What I'm Doing, Jerk). "Dean, if I can throw Lucifer into the Cage, if I can drag Jimi away from a dead skunk, if I can drag you away from a bar, I can drag a small dog away from a squirrel! Oh, by the way, my shoes didn't kill me."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean sniffed at his shirt and screwed up his nose. "I call first on the shower."

"Okay, hey, just let me download your tracker data." Sam tapped at the keys, and opened a new window. "That's... Dean, you've increased your number of steps again! And your distance! Well done!"

Dean shrugged, "Well, it's less aggravating that listenin' to you bleat about my health," he said nonchalantly, "This job gives me enough headaches without listenin' to you rant about my cardio-vascular wellbein'."

"You keep this up, you'll be coming for a run with me," Sam told him.

"I don't intend to be in this body for long enough to get it conditioned enough to chase Sasquatches," Dean informed him firmly. "And once I'm my awesome self again, it won't be necessary."

"No point trying to keep up with me, short-ass?" grinned Sam.

"Nope," Dean smirked annoyingly, "Got nothin' left to prove."

As his big brother headed for the bathroom, Sam smiled to himself; Dean would never admit it, but he'd agree to train for a marathon if it was the only way he could stop his baby brother worrying.

"What the hell?... Sammy, that bottle is enormous!"

"I got it on special. Clearance."

"Seriously, that's enough for us both to shower twice a day for the next month."

"STAY OUT OF MY STUFF YOU JERK!"

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Dean seemed remarkably chipper – suspiciously chipper, even – after a lunch at which he had been served a turkey and roast vegetable club sandwich with no fries but plenty of salad.

"What are you up to?" Sam demanded flatly.

"What?" Dean picked up a slice of cucumber and crunched on it noisily.

"What are you up do?" Sam repeated, "You're sitting there, eating your lunch, with an absolute minimum of complaining. That's weird, bro."

Dean regarded his brother seriously. "Has it occurred to you that I might've decided that fightin' you on this is a battle I can't win? Or that maybe you're right, and I gotta keep this body alive and functioning long enough to get my own awesome one back? Or maybe, just maybe, I'm developing a taste for some of this stuff?"

"No." Sam narrowed his eyes.

"It could happen, you know," Dean picked up another piece of cucumber. "You go exposing me to all this stuff I never eat, and some of doesn't taste completely crap. I mean, look at this." He gestured with the piece of cucumber, and smiled winningly. "Who'd ever think that this is what pickles come from? I never realised how, how, how crunchy this stuff is!"

Sam was about to begin the Rite of Exorcism when their waitress drifted back to their table. "Is there anything else I can get for you boys?" she asked.

"Definitely," Dean turned his smile to her, "I still got room for dessert, so..."

"Dean, we've been through this, you are not having..."

"I'd like a piece of that zucchini and pumpkin slice," Dean finished. "With Greek yoghurt. You should have one too, Sam," he went on, "They look great!"

"I will find out what you're up to," Sam growled for his brother's ears alone when the slices arrived. "Sooner or later, I will find out."

"Maybe it's nothing I want to hide, Sam," Dean grinned as he shoved a mouthful of slice and yoghurt into his face, "Maybe I just don't wanna sabotage myself tonight."

"Tonight? What are you doing tonight?"

Dean gave him the sort of look that kindergarten teachers probably use when they catch one of their students eating the Play-Doh. Again. "Well, I'm goin' out to get laid, of course!"

Sam sighed, and managed not to facepalm. "Look, Dean, maybe for the duration, it's not a good idea..."

"It's a totally good idea!" Dean insisted, "I mean, your approach worked, right? And the, uh, the slight technical hitch in proceedings, you said that it's normal for an average guy to have these occasional, you know, difficulties, on the odd occasion, occasionally?"

"Yeah," Sam drew the single word out dubiously.

"Well, moping about it aint gonna solve anything," Dean declared, "What I gotta do, is man up, and just get right back on the horse. Or," the Eyebrows Of Lust did their thing, "Let her get back on me, whatever the lady would prefer..."

"Gah!" Sam let out a noise of disgust and shot Dean a Bitchface #2™ (Dean Is A Simple Animal Governed By The Three Fs: Feeding, Fighting, and… The Other One). You really have a one track mind. How can somebody have such a one track mind, and stay alive past adolescence?"

"That's just how awesome I am," Dean sighed.

With a shake of his head, Sam turned his attention to his own piece of slice. Should the world ever end in the searing flash of a thermonuclear holocaust, he'd discovered one more unkillable thing that would inherit the Earth: along with the rats and cockroaches, Dean's libido would wander the glowing slag of the post-apocalypse landscape forever.

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"You should come with me," declared Dean as he prepared to head out that evening.

"No," scowled Sam, "I'm staying here. There have been some really interesting Attenborough docos on TV, which I'd rather watch than you picking up women."

"You might learn something," wheedled Dean, picking up the Impala's keys.

"I could go to that weird part of the internet and 'learn something'," Sam countered, "That doesn't mean it's something I want to learn about."

"How did you turn into such a great big prude?" Dean asked good-naturedly. "Well, you know the drill, salt the door after me, and don't wait up."

"Don't drink too much!" Sam yelled after his smirking brother, then turned to Jimi, who was curled up contentedly on his blanket. "I should learn from you, shouldn't I?" he mused. "You are a model of affection, of forgiveness for all human failings, of selfless concern for the well-being of another. an epitome of unconditional love. Life would be less complicated for us if I was more like you."

Jimi wagged his tail, yawned hugely, and farted.

As the lavender-scented half-Hellhound flatulence reached him, Sam sighed. "He'd probably love me a lot more if I did that," he told the dog. "And best of all, if he told me just one Chicks I Have Banged story too many, I could use my Hellhound teeth to tear out his throat."

He found himself spoilt for choice for the television, which was a real change from the usual porn, sport or Mexican soap operas that was the usual fare on offer. Sir David was just whispering earnestly about the astonishing night time navigation capabilities of bats, and sounding remarkably eager and cheerful for somebody who had just rappelled down onto a twenty-foot mound of guano, when his cell chirped with a message from Dean.

It gave him the name and address of a bar, and one more word that made his blood run cold.

 _ **funkytown**_

He checked the map, then pulled on his trainers and called to Jimi – it wasn't far, and if his brother was in trouble, he was taking the nose for evil shit, and health regulations be damned.

* * *

Oh noes! A Winchester in peril! What has happened to Dean? Or what has Dean happened to? Beau-Ponty loves your tasty reviews, feed him more and lets find out!


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter Fifteen**

Sam quickly located the Impala in the parking lot of the bar, and left Jimi waiting there, alert and silent, ready to run to their aid at a single call from his Alpha or his Second. Then he headed into the bar.

Nothing immediately caught his attention: it was a busy bar, packed with people, and there was not any occult threat he could see. He spotted his brother easily enough – Dean was slouched at a table with a beer, looking like a guy unwinding with a drink after work, but to Sam, who had years of practical observation of his big brother in the wild, the tells were there.

His big brother was tense. He was in trouble.

Dean noticed his baby brother enter the bar, and the brief expression that crossed his face told Sam all he needed to know.

 _Don't attract any attention, and get over here like nothing's wrong._

Sam bought himself a drink, and drifted over to the table where he joined his brother, their conversation covered by the sounds of other patrons talking and background music. "What's up?" he asked, sipping his beer, but alert for any threat.

"Thank fuck you're here," Dean muttered, his voice low and tense, "I have to get out of here, Sam."

"Why?" asked Sam, "What is it? Is it something to do with your curse?"

"Uh, well, not exactly." Dean swallowed. "I, uh, I have a problem."

"Huh?" Sam turned to look at his brother, who was looking frankly sheepish, and, if he thought about it, just a bit worried. "What sort of problem? Crap, is it the Law?"

"No, no, it's not cops," Dean assured him, "It's, uh, it's a bit, er, closer to home than that..."

"Dean," Sam swept the room with a Hunter's alert gaze, "Whatever it is, we'll get out. Jimi is waiting in the car. Tell me what it is. We'll get out, through the back if we have to, over the bar if we have to, we'll call Jimi if we have to, shoot our way out if we have to..."

"Uh, that won't be necessary," Dean interrupted. "There's no fuglies here. At least, none I can spot."

Sam turned to stare at his brother. "I got your message, dropped everything to haul ass here because you were in trouble, and now you tell me it's a false alarm?"

"It's not!" Dean hissed, "There really is a problem! A serious problem!"

"Then what the hell _is_ it?" demanded Sam.

Looking like a deer in the crosshairs, Dean visibly swallowed. "Well, you know how I came out to find a like-minded lady for frisky funtimes tonight?" he began.

"Yes," Sam prompted. "And?..."

"And you know how I kind of had, uh, you know," Dean waved a hand uncertainly, "A bit of, uh, trouble last night?"

"Yeees...?"

"And you know how I wanted to get straight back on the horse?"

"Yeeeees...?"

"But of course I didn't want a repeat performance of, uh, you know, lack of performance?"

"Dean," Sam spoke with a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "If you don't get to the point before Easter, I might just shoot you myself."

"Well, the thing is, the thing is," Dean went on, visibly unhappy, "I thought that I should, kind of, maybe give Mother Nature a helping hand, sort of thing, since I'm so Mr Average at the moment, so, uh, I uh, kind of... helped things along. A bit. Kind of."

Sam stared at his brother in complete incomprehension. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

"This Mr Average Joe suit needs all the help it can get," Dean stated, "And I thought, well, maybe I could just use a little bit of a boost, for interaction with the ladies."

"For interaction with... Dean, if you have been dumb enough to try one of those stupid alleged female attracting pheromone sprays, and you've had some sort of allergic reaction to it, it serves you right, those things are a complete rip-off with no research to back up their claims of efficacy..."

"Not pheromones, Sam," Dean looked stricken. "No, not pheromones."

"Then, for fuck's sake, bro, _what_?"

Wordlessly, with a face like a dog who's been caught with his nose in the garbage, Dean reached into a pocket, pulled out a small bottle, and handed it over.

Sam scanned it, and his face went from confusion to horror at the speed of WTF.

"You... oh – my – _God_ , you took these?"

"Um, yeah."

"Seriously? _Seriously_? You actually _took_ these? Are you _nuts_?"

"I'm not nuts! I just wanted to, you know, uh, avoid, um. Yeah."

"I mean, they could contain anything, up to and including poisonous adulterants! People have died taking this stuff! When did you start feeling sick?" Sam pulled out his cell, preparing to call an ambulance. "What are your symptoms? Are you light-headed? Is that why you can't get up, and leave by yourself? We have to get you to the nearest ER, because if your blood pressure crashes..."

"No! No! I'm not sick!" Dean protested. "I'm fine! I'm feeling fine! You don't have to worry about me keeling over, that's not going to happen."

"Dean, you took this stuff," Sam waggled the bottle, "And now you don't want me to worry?"

"Well, no, of course not," Dean scoffed.

"How many did you take?" demanded Sam.

"One or two," Dean replied defensively. "Maybe three. No more than four."

"It says this is a bottle of twelve."

"No more than six, absolute worse case scenario."

"The bottle is empty, Dean."

"Well, according to Doctor Google, they aint as potent as the real deal, so…"

"That's what doing earlier today? I thought you were working on the case! And _this_ is what you were researching with such ferocious concentration?"

"Look, I don't want you to worry, just..."

"You don't want me to worry?" Sam's voice rose an octave with indignation. "You don't want me to worry? My big brother eats a handful of this so-called herbal Viagra crap, which could contain _anything_ , and _you don't want me to worry_?!"

"Sam, I am NOT sick, I am NOT feeling bad, I am NOT in danger of dying here!" Dean yapped irritably. "So stop being such a mother hen! Who's the drama queen now, huh?"

Visibly reining in his temper, Sam drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm surprised at you," he spoke with deliberate calmness, "To spend money on something like that. There is absolutely no peer-reviewed evidence to suggest that these 'alternative medicine' versions work, and..."

"Oh, they worked, Sam," Dean's pained tone was as eloquent as his expression. "They worked."

"What? What do you mean, they..."

Dean pushed his chair back.

"OH JESUS H. FUCKING CHRIST!" Sam clapped his hands over his eyes. "I do NOT need to see that!"

"Don't be so squeamish!" snapped Dean, scooting his chair back in. "You're a guy, it's no surprise to you…" His eyes travelled down. "Yeah, okay, maybe you've never seen one that's quite so, uh, you know, keen to meet new people…"

"HOW could you DO that to me?!" demanded Sam.

"Do that to you?" Dean scoffed. "What the hell are you complaining about?"

"THAT!"

"Hey, I'm the one sittin' here with a circus tent in his pants, trying to work out how to stand up without hurting myself..."

"SHUT UP!" Sam scrabbled for his phone. "Ohhhh, I need a huge bucket of mind bleach, sixty seconds ago... shit, get up, we're taking you to the nearest ER, right now."

"What?" Dean looked panicked. "No! No! You can't do that! Don't you DARE do that!"

"Dean, this could be a serious health problem," Sam said in a level tone, "I'm not kidding. It could damage you permanently. If it doesn't resolve by itself, it needs medical attention. This is no time for he-man reticence or embarrassment; your health could really be at stake, here..."

"NO!" Dean insisted.

"Dean, this matter is not up for discussion!"

"Damned right," Dean crossed his arms, "You aint takin' me to any damned hospital."

"I have to! This is not funny!"

"It's absolutely not funny!" agreed Dean.

"Damn you, bro, this has to be addressed by modern medicine!"

"Well, you go get me the pill to reverse it, then," his big brother specified.

"There is no pill to reverse it," Sam scowled, scanning through his search results, "It needs a very specific procedure performed by a qualified specialist."

"Ohhhh, hell no," Dean moaned. "I'm not letting some old grey guy grab my junk... what?" Dean watched his brother's face visibly go green. "What?"

"It says here," Sam swallowed, "It says here that, uh, the excess pressure in the corpus callosi has to be relieved via bilateral phlebotomy, usually assisted by ultrasound, to restore normal circulatory function and vascular return."

Dean looked nonplussed. "What the hell does that even mean?"

Wordlessly, Sam handed his cell to his brother.

Dean read. Dean's eyes bugged. And then, Dean exploded.

"What the... no way, Francis! No fucking way!"

"Dean this sort of thing can be a real medical emergency, bro..."

"I don't care if it jumps up and knocks my eye out, NOBODY is doing THAT to me!"

"Look, I'm sure that it sounds worse than it actually is..."

"Sounds worse? Sounds worse? Does the theme to 'Jaws' sound worse than actually getting eaten by a shark?"

"Dean..."

"There's _pictures_ , Sam! Pictures of what they do! It does NOT sound worse!"

"I think you need to calm down and consider this..."

"Calm down? Calm down?" Dean gawped at his brother, "It says here that they stick needles into your dick and suck out blood until it goes down, and you are telling me to _calm down_?"

"Well, no doubt there's at least some topical anaesthetic involved..."

"NO!" Dean shouted. "Sam, I am NOT going to hospital to be treated for a raging hard-on, okay? I'm just NOT! ESPECIALLY if some SADISTIC WEIRDO wants to stick fucking NEEDLES INTO MY DICK!"

There was a sudden pocket of silence as people at the tables around them stopped, and turned to look at them with bemused expressions.

"Sorry," Sam apologised with one of his most adorable smiles, "Rehearsal for a Post-Deconstructionalist Drama class. Keep your voice down!" he added in a hiss directed at his brother. "For somebody who doesn't want to attract attention, you're doing a bang-up job."

"Anyway, I gotta get out of here," Dean stated.

"So, get up and go," Sam humphed, thoroughly piqued by his brother's behaviour, attitude and general wilful Deanishness.

"I can't!" Dean protested. "What if somebody sees?"

"They'll just think that you're an inappropriately horny asshole. And they'll be totally correct," snapped Sam. "Oh, for fuck's sake, can't you just camouflage it with your jacket?"

"Nope," Dean said glumly, "I tried that, look, it doesn't work..."

"Hey, I said I do NOT need to see that! Fuck," Sam growled, "Okay, here's what we do. I get up and leave, you get up and leave, you stick close behind me, I'll be your camouflage."

"No," Dean said firmly. "If somebody does see, they'll think I'm some creepy pervy creeping pervert with the hots for you."

"Nobody will see!" Sam insisted. "Look, the lights in here are low, people are talking to each other. And nobody's going to be interested in looking at you, Joe Average," he added trenchantly.

"No!" Dean insisted.

"Look, we'll never come back to this bar again," Sam attempted to use reason, always a long shot with Dean but sometimes worth a try, "So even if somebody does see you, they'll never see you again after that, and it won't matter."

"It'll matter to me," griped Dean sullenly. "Come on, college boy, you're supposed to be the smart one, think of something!"

"You are impossible," Sam ground out between clenched teeth. "Completely, totally, utterly, infuriatingly impossible..." his eyes strayed to the bar. "Belay that," he muttered thoughtfully, "I might just have come up with something worth a shot. Stay here."

"Attaboy Sammy," Dean encouraged as his little brother left the booth and headed for the bar. "I knew you'd think of something!"

Sam had thought of something: Dean watched him head for the bar, and buy a jug.

"Way to go, Supergeek!" Dean enthused as his brother returned, "The Living Sex God, o' course, doesn't have to worry about alcohol impairing his performance in the bedroom, but Mr Average Joe? Keep pouring booze into him until the problem goes away? That's an awesome idea…"

However, Sam's idea lost a lot of its awesomeness once Dean realised that Sam was carrying a jug not of beer, but of ice water.

It lost absolutely all of any remaining awesomeness when Sam upended the jug in his lap.

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"For this, I will end you," Dean rumbled dangerously as they made their way out into the lot, "You will not see it coming, it will not be clean, it will not be quick, and before I am done, you will beg for death..."

"Shut the fuck up," snapped Sam, "It worked. And you could blame it on your clumsy little brother, and not your own fucking stupidity, in front of all those people."

"You traumatised me!" Dean whined.

Sam rounded on his brother. "I traumatised you? _I_ traumatised _you_? You message me, tell me you're in trouble, and I get there and find out that it's a rampant case of self-inflicted priapism, and you make me look at my older brother's monumental hard-on, and _you_ are accusing _me_ of inflicting trauma on _you_? Jerk!"

"I think you froze it," Dean complained, "I can't feel anything there, and that aint normal."

"I hope I did," Sam shot back as they approached the car, "I hope it froze, and I hope it snaps off, and I hope I never have to hear about anything to do with it again, because..."

He stopped abruptly. Before Dean could put the key in the door, Jimi suddenly pulled his Hellhound heritage trick and shot straight through the door, making a beeline for the bar.

"What the... Jimi!"

The Winchesters immediately left off their argument, and followed him.

The dog didn't go far – he headed past the doors and around the building to where the garbage dumpsters were.

Only, he wasn't interested in the dumpsters; he was interested in the figure slumped against one of them. Whining, he nosed and pawed at the motionless body, moving in to lick anxiously at his face.

"What the... Jimi, what is this?" said Dean, mystified, "Is that guy dead?"

"Dead drunk, I think," Sam corrected, hunkering down to check on the man, his nose wrinkling. "Either that, or he's been bathing in liquor."

As he spoke, the man's eyes opened, and he stared groggily at the Winchesters and their dog. Catching sight of Jimi, his eyes went wide. "Don't let him eat me!" he shrieked.

"Hey, it's okay, he won't," Sam reassured him, "He's just worried about you, for some reason..."

"He tried to eat me!" the intoxicated man insisted, trying to get up and failing miserably, "He tried to eat me!"

"No, he's not tastin' you, really he's not," Dean reassured the stranger, "He just wants to make sure you're okay..."

"The other night, he tried to eat me!" insisted the man, scrabbling to his feet unsteadily, "After you cheated me at pool!"

"Huh?" Dean looked bemused. "There must be some mistake, man, I've never met you before!"

"You cheated me," the guy slurred, "And I came to get my money back, and, and, and your dog was there, and his eyes glowed, they glowed, and he, and he..." he slid back down the dumpster to the ground, and burst into tears.

Dean looked at Sam, who stared back, just as dumbfounded, and Jimi whuffed supportively, leaning in to lick the guy's face again. "Sam, this is not the guy I played pool with," he stated, "You saw him, you saw them, they were a bunch of steroid-munching smoothie-sipping protein powder snorting assholes, but _this_ guy, he looks, he looks..."

"He looks completely unhot," Sam noted grimly. "He looks average, ordinary, and unhot. Just like you."

* * *

Sam is a big bloke - sometimes, why he doesn't just strangle Dean is a mystery. He could put an iPod jack in the car.

If it appears that I am being excessively mean to Dean, I can only plead transferrence: at the moment, I am seriously contemplating banging some colleagues' heads together.

For those who are conversant with The Craft, these two allegedly educated individuals have put a PCR cycler and a next gen sequencer in the same room.

For others, that's like holding your Democrat working party in the same room as your GOP get-together and expecting both of 'em to function efficiently.

Morons: BEWARE! They can strike anywhere, anytime, when you least expect them! And the more educated they are, the more dangerous they are...

I am seriously contemplating asking the security guys if I can draw a weapon, just for fifteen minutes. Having to write on paper and post it out from prison will put a bit of a crimp in my fickriting, but I'm sure we'll all adjust.

But enough of that splim-splam-splom, we have... a Plot Development! What is Beau-Ponty planning? Dictate little plot bunny, dictate! Feed him reviews, because Reviews Are The Bloody Swathe Of Mayhem You Cut With Semi-Automatic Weaponry Through The Workplace Of Life!


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter Sixteen**

The Winchesters helped the staggering man into the back of the Impala, where he decided that the dog wasn't going to eat him after all: he hugged Jimi and continued to sob into the dog's neck, while Jimi offered soothing whuffs and tender ear-washing for comfort.

"He must be affected," Sam posited, "Jimi wants to help, so the nose for evil shit must've picked up on a victim of occult mojo."

"That's just how awesome the J-Man is," stated Dean, looking at their passenger in the mirror. "So, what now?"

"We take him back to our room, let him sober up, and talk to him," Sam replied, "If he's been affected by the same curse as you, he could lead us to a common factor, and help us figure it out. Above all, we keep him safe."

"From death by the curse?" asked Dean.

"Well, mostly from himself, I was thinking," Sam turned around to regard their guest with bemusement. "I mean, why would he do that?"

"Well, the ear-washin' thing, it's his way of showin' you that he's lookin' after you, like you were a pup needing his protection – if I'm honest, if you're drunk and feeling down, it's kinda soothing in a weird way..."

"No, no, no!" Sam snapped, "Not the dog, the human! Why would he do that to himself? Make a bad situation worse? He looks like he hasn't been sober for days!"

"Well, clearly the guy is totally traumatised," Dean answered, "I mean, if he's been hit with the same curse whammy as me, he's gone from totally hot, not as hot as the Living Sex God, but yeah, I'm mature enough to admit it, he's gone from totally hot to totally not, and as a civilian he has absolutely no idea what's happened – he thinks he's having a nightmare that's come true. It's devastating, bro, I can tell you that from personal experience."

"When something goes wrong, getting drunk doesn't help," Sam observed, "You should know that from personal experience, too."

"With something this wrong, he probably figured it couldn't make things worse," Dean suggested.

"Well, maybe it can," Sam noted grimly, "I don't like the look of his complexion."

"It aint his fault if some asshole has unhotted him and given him zits, Sam," Dean's tone dripped with disdain.

"No, no, I mean, he's looking a bit, well, jaundiced," Sam clarified. "It could just be the lights, or it could be because suddenly his cursed liver can't cope."

"Oh, dude," Dean sighed sympathetically as he started the engine, "He doesn't know it, but his problems are just beginning."

"What the...? Dean, if he's been hit with your curse too, we're gonna fix this!"

"Fine, I'll tell him that bit," Dean said, easing the car out of the lot, "You can explain why you're gonna force feed him weird shit for his own good."

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Their possible curse victim mumbled incoherently about women, assholes and booze, then fell asleep on Sam's bed, snuggled up to Jimi.

The Winchesters, familiar with tending to a human being coming off a bender, took turns to keep watch, and when Mr Average Joe II finally stirred, they were on hand with water, Gatorade, pills and ear-washing.

"How come he gets coffee?" demanded Dean, watching as his brother handed the cup to the ashen-faced man.

"Because we need him compos mentis as soon as possible," Sam replied.

"Well, you need me compos mentis for this job," Dean complained, "Why can't I have coffee to help my brain get with the program?"

"Because you have a diagnosed cardiac pathology," Sam snapped, "Besides which, all the coffee in Colombia would not convince your Upstairs Brain to get with the program. Here, drink some of this," he turned back to their guest with a kinder tone. "Look, you must be feeling completely confused at this point, but we need to talk to you."

Wordlessly, the guy accepted the coffee and sipped at it. "I recognise you," he said in a shaky voice. "From a few days ago. I played pool. Against you." The look on his face suggested that at least a few of his brain cells were able to wade through the alcohol far enough to remember what had happened. "I, uh, I..."

"Don't worry about that," Dean cut it, "You got more immediate concerns, am I right? What's your name, dude?"

"I... I'm Gary," he stuttered, "Gary Shields. At least..." he caught sight of himself in the room's speckled mirror, and shuddered, "I was..."

"Hey," Dean cut in, "You still are, man. You're still you, okay? Hang on to that thought. You are still you."

"O... Okay," Gary replied vaguely, looking around himself with a dazed expression. "Where..."

"This is our motel room," Dean went on, "I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam, and that awesome dude there is Jimi. He found you, outside that bar."

Gary turned to look at Jimi, who offered him a doggy smile. "But he... he... he wanted to eat me..."

"That was before, when you were threatening his people, his pack," Sam assured the confused man. "Now, he knows you're in trouble, and he wants to help."

"I'm... I'm..." Gary seemed on the verge of tears again; Jimi humphed, lay down, and put his big earnest head in the man's lap. "I'm... I don't know what happened, but... I don't look like me anymore. I don't look like this. I'm a chick magnet. This is... this is not me..."

"We know," Sam told him, "Gary, we are trying to work out what happened to you."

Gary looked up, still bemused. "You... you believe me? Nobody believes me, my friends don't recognise me, they think I'm just some total nobody having some sort of delusional break, and women just slap me, and, and, and everybody just _ignores_ me, I can walk down the street and it's like I'm not even _there_..."

"Ohhhh, we believe you," Dean told him, "This is real, Gary, it's really happened – you're not going nuts. Look." He took out his cell, and brought up a photo of himself with his Baby. "See that? That's me. Not this me, that's proper me."

Gary stared at the phone. "It's... this has happened to you?" he asked incredulously, as Dean nodded. "Oh, wow, that's... that's a fuckin' tragedy right there, my man, you are hot."

"Damn straight," Dean agreed as Sam rolled his eyes.

"I mean, you could pull chicks in your sleep, dude."

"You better believe it," Dean smirked.

A look of wistful compassion formed on Gary's face. "Oh, man, I'm so sorry," he sighed. "I feel your pain."

Dean sat down next to Gary. "So, the thing is, right now, we are trying to figure this out," he said, "We think it's some sort of curse."

Gary blinked. "Huh?"

"A curse," Sam echoed, "Look, I know this is going to be hard to believe, but stuff like curses? It's real. You understand that – it's happened to you. There really are things that go bump in the night – it's our job to track them down, and stop them."

Gary's mouth fell open. "Wow," he breathed, "So, there's some asshole, like, like, Voldemort, goin' around putting curses on hot guys, and making them not hot? Seriously? Somebody did that?" He let out a whistle. "That's, like, totally evil. Really, really evil. It's the most evil thing you could do in the whole world!"

"Well," Sam shrugged, "Maybe if we put this in perspective, compare it to, oh, say, genocide, massive systemic corporate fraud, political repression, systematic and deliberate discrimination, child abuse, religious persecution, mass homicide..."

"You're totally right," Dean assured Gary, "This is the most evil thing that could ever be done, by anybody, to anybody. And we need your help to fix it, and stop it happening again."

Hope bloomed in Gary's eyes. "You think you can fix this?" he asked, "You can make me... you can make both of us hot again?"

"Back to our awesome selves," Dean assured him, "But we gotta figure out who's doing it. You are our link, Gary, you are our lead. It's up to us to save other hot guys from a fate worse than death."

"We need to know everything that you've done, everywhere that you've been, since you played pool with Dean," Sam instructed, shooting his big brother a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) then looking at his watch. "Why don't you clean up a bit, then we can go and have breakfast, and we can talk?"

"Yeah, okay," Gary looked down at himself. "I, uh, I had to wear sweats, 'cause none of my clothes will fit me."

"It's okay, I got some pants that you can use," Dean offered, "Then prepare to be horrified."

"Gary looked grimly determined. "No, I'm okay, I can do this," he said firmly, "If it will help you fix this, and save other hot guys, I can talk about it..."

"Not that," grunted Dean, "But you'd better steel yourself for the sort of crap that Aunty Samantha will order for breakfast."

The Winchesters told Gary a bit more about what they did, and how they operated, and after that Gary insisted on taking them to a favourite place of his for breakfast. "Hey, you guys are an unacknowledged public service," he told them, "Plus, the staff there are good at the sort of stuff I like, so you won't have to worry about 'Aunty Samantha' ordering crap," he offered Dean a grin.

"I don't order crap!" complained Sam.

"You totally do," Dean confirmed with a smirk, "And if Gary here is offerin' to buy breakfast, well, we aint gonna complain, we're gonna be grateful, right, Sam?"

Sam muttered something dire about gratitude for impending atherosclerosis being misplaced, but subsided.

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Since he was a child, Dean had become familiar with the experience of getting trapped in the car with his little brother while Sam held forth on a topic that he considered to be 'interesting'. When they were kids, he did it as part of the routine of raising his baby brother. When they were teenagers, he indulged it, because it made Sam happy, and a happy Sam was less likely than a moody Sam to get into fights with Dad. Now they were adults, Sam was still able to talk for an extended period of time on something that interested him; Dean didn't think he'd ever met anybody who could talk about a topic he found interesting quite as much as Sam.

As it turned out, Gary gave his little brother a run for his money.

And Gary's favourite topic was, it turned out, Gary.

"So, I try to avoid coffee," he went on, patting Jimi, "But I think this morning I really needed it, man, you really saved me, I'm gonna have to do cardio until I die to work the last two days off, and today would usually be leg and back day, but I feel seriously dehydrated, and I've totally screwed up my carb loading, and I haven't taken my supplements, I've been in shock, and this body, huh, I'm gonna have to drop sets, and reps, and weights, damn it, it's gonna be like I'm a total noob, and if I try to superset it'll just collapse, if I have to train down and use those plastic coated girly weights that the women use, I'll just die, of course, the core is like fucking spaghetti, it can barely hold me upright, and I'm betting this body's abs have never seen the light of day, and you know how damned hard you have to work to get that back if you let it slide, and right now I don't even wanna think about my bench..."

"It, uh, it might be a good idea to, um, give it a miss, at least for today," Sam interrupted, "Let your body recover a bit. From the shock. And the bender."

"Yeah, you're probably right," Gary sighed, then looked resolute. "Still, time to get my shit together, and get back on the horse, right?"

"Uh, yeah, sure," Sam agreed, as Dean let out a small noise of distress at the metaphor.

"So that's it, right up ahead," Gary pointed out the establishment. "And Dean, I promise, I'll do the ordering, and I won't let your brother screw up your breakfast."

Sam sighed inwardly, and wondered if he was being punished.

Screw that, he knew he was being punished; it was just that he'd quite like to know what for, so he could avoid doing it ever again.

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As it turned out, Sam needn't have worried about breakfast...

"What the fuck is this, Gary?"

"Omelette, dude."

"Omelette?"

"It's just egg whites, I swear."

"Egg whites...? Just... egg whites? Gary, I can't eat fried egg whites!"

"Yeah, I know, if I wasn't such a wuss I'd drink 'em, but, well, somehow, I just can't bring myself to do it. The guys get on my case about it all the time, I'm such a soft cock, but, well, ewwww. I guess I just don't have a strong stomach."

"You think you don't have a strong stomach?"

"Yeah, it's grossing me out, just thinkin' about 'em."

"Gary, you're eating them right now!"

"Yeah, but they're cooked. And there's filling. The tomatoes dress it up a bit, and you get the Vitamin C for the iron absorption from the spinach."

"Dean, try this, it's really pretty good."

"Shut up, Sam, that's not 'filling', when somebody says 'filling' that means cheese, and bacon, and..."

"Cheese and bacon? Whoa, cheat day is ten days off, dude."

"Cheat day?"

"It's a day off from watching your diet, Dean, a day where you can eat more of the things you want."

"You still gotta stay away from processed stuff, though, and watch the total calories. So, you guys don't do cheat day, then?"

"Uh, not exactly, no..."

"Man, I am so jealous! I shoulda realised that the minute I got a look at you, Sam. Respect, guys, you have serious willpower!"

"Ohhhh yeah, right now, I feel so lucky... what exactly is this?"

"It's a smoothie, Dean."

"I can see it's a smoothie, Sam, thank you very much, what I want to know is, what's in it? Why is it a totally disturbing colour?"

"That'll be the protein powder."

"The _what_?"

"Well, it's pretty clear I don't have the discipline you guys do – I get 'em made with the chocolate protein powder."

"Chocolate protein powder?"

"Yeah, I know, you wouldn't think it'd be that good, but somehow it really works with the broccoli."

" _Broccoli_?"

"Yeah. I think maybe it takes the edge off the bitterness of the kale, too."

"Try it, Dean, it's not bad..."

"I'm not drinking that."

"Oh, man, I'm sorry, that was so thoughtless of me, I'm not trying to sabotage you, really, let me get you another one, no chocolate, straight whey, I promise, you want BCAAs and creatine with that?"

"No, no, that won't be necessary, Gary, it'll be good for him to drink a broccoli and kale smoothie with chocolate protein powder in it. Go on, Dean, just this once. Think of it as a cheat day."

"I hate you."

* * *

I think it's kind of sweet - Dean and Gary can start a Cursed Narcissists Support Group. Meanwhile, feed Beau-Ponty the plot bunny reviews, because Reviews Are The Egg White Omelette In...

Er, no, just... no. I'd rather have the pancakes. Or hash browns. Or both.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter Seventeen**

Having hope for the return of his hotness, Gary brightened up considerably, and chattered happily about his training routine and diet all the way back to the Winchesters' room.

"What the hell is he talking about?" demanded Dean, looking bewildered, when they had a break from Gary when he left to go get his diary, which he assured them would be an accurate record of his activities leading up to his unfortunate fall from hotness.

"Himself, mostly," grunted Sam with a roll of his eyes.

"He's big on cycles, isn't he?" Dean noted, sounding bemused. "Bulking cycles, cutting cycles, protein cycles, amino cycles, ketone cycles. I thought only women had, you know, cycles."

"Those are hormonal," Sam reminded him. "And natural," he added.

"What the hell is a ketone cycle? It sounds like something a European chick might ride."

"Ketosis," Sam clarified, "It's a thing that body-obsessed narcissists like Gary do, screwing with your diet to induce a fat metabolism state that borders on biochemical pathology." He paused. "It's always struck me as a form of psychological pathology, really."

"I mean, he spends all that time exercisin'," Dean went on, "And when he's not in the gym he's findin' ever more disgusting things to eat, and ever more disgusting ways to eat 'em."

"There's no law against having no life outside of self-maintenance," Sam shrugged, tapping at the keys, and frowning. "Okay, that's weird..."

"What?" Dean pressed, "What's weird?"

"I told you I found the coroner's files on some of those other hot guys?" Sam went on. "Well, the names match up, the ages, but get this." He turned the screen to face Dean. "Look at these guys. Even before they were dead, they weren't even lukewarm."

Dean frowned, and opened a couple of Facebook pages. "Like me," he noted, "They're recognisable as themselves, but... not."

"DNA from a family member was used to ID this guy," Sam pointed out, "And the, uh, distortion of appearance was put down to post-mortem changes, but..."

"It matches," Dean confirmed, checking the screen and his notes, "The details, the info, these guys aren't shy about puttin' their life stories online, it all matches. These live guys, who were hot, are those dead guys who are not." He scrolled up and down. "Dates of their deaths are about a week after their last postings."

"They stopped posting, because they weren't hot anymore," mused Sam, "And a week or so after that, they died." He turned his laptop back to him. "This one had sudden acute cardiovascular failure, collapsed at the gym. This one had catastrophic liver failure – he was found at home."

"I'm guessin' that one was desperate to do something about his new fat suit, and the other tried to drown his sorrows," Dean mused. "See, I keep telling you, exercise aint healthy..."

"In this case, it was lack of exercise, then too much exertion, that was unhealthy," Sam corrected. "So you are not excused from your whiskey-alpha-tango-kilo later. So long as you don't try to run a half-marathon, you'll be fine."

"Bitch," Dean muttered. "So, what links them, and what links me and Gary to what links them?"

"Well, you can go through Gary's diary with him, see if anything he did matches anything you did," Sam told him, looking up as they heard a car pull into the lot. "Speaking of which..."

"Speak of the devil, and he shall appear," sighed Dean, as Jimi let out a welcoming whuff when the knock at the door sounded.

"Hi guys!" Gary sounded positively chipper, "I got my diary, and I brought lunch!" He offered them a sheepish smile. "I wasn't sure if I should, I got this feeling that I'm gonna have you two watchin' me and judgin' me, 'cause I can't eat as clean as you..."

"Under the circumstances Gary, I think we should just do the best we can," Sam assured him, "Nobody is judging your for your, er, dietary habits."

"I am," Dean muttered.

Sam surreptitiously kicked his brother in the ankle. "For the moment, I think we should concentrate our energy and attention on figuring out how to fix this," he went on firmly before Dean could say anything unhelpful like _If you have green leafy vegetables in that carrier I will shove them into every available orifice of your body then cut you some new ones so I can keep stuffing_. "So, if you can go over your movements with Dean, from the time you played pool to the time you woke up, er, not quite yourself..."

"It's all right here!" Gary brandished a dog-eared work book the way a missionary might show his holy text to a heathen, "So, let's start with pool..."

Giving Sam a murderous glare, Dean sat down next to Gary, and looked at the diary.

"So, after we, uh, yeah, sorry, man, anyway, I went home and went to bed, then the next morning, I got up, mood, still a bit pissed, see, so, I prepared my post-workout shake, and hit the gym, as you can see here it was biceps and lats day, so I started with a couple of warm-up sets..."

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An hour later, having sat through an excruciating episode of The Gary Show, in which Dean was treated to the most detailed minutiae of Gary's life, from his uprising to his downlying, from his iron pumping to his cardio sweating, from his shake-swilling to his egg-white omelette eating, from his supplement-gobbling to his bowel moving, from his beach-posing to his barre classing...

"Whoa, whoa, back up," Dean's attention sat up and yipped in surprise, "Did you just say, bar class? Is that, like, exercise in a bar somewhere? 'Cause I could probably come at that."

"No, barre, as in, ballet barre," Gary replied. Sam looked up, his keyboard rattling to a sudden halt. "Seriously," Gary went on, "You oughta try it sometime. For stretching, and core strength, it's a killer! Man, those guys are flexible!"

"You... Gary, you do ballet classes?" asked Sam in bewilderment.

"I, uh," Gary looked sheepish. "My Mom sent me to dance classes when I was a kid," he admitted, "I didn't like it much then, and didn't really have any talent, but it's a seriously tough work-out. Plus, the women are really hot." He paused. "I don't wear a leotard," he added defensively.

"No, no, it's okay, Gary," Sam assured him, "It's just a bit, uh, well, surprising."

"It's my secret weapon," Gary smiled, "My body, I mean, my own body, can do a full splits, and actually get both ankles behind its head, which I gotta tell ya, can be kind of..."

"That's great, Gary," Sam cut in before Dean, who looked as if he was going to ask for clarifying details, "But I don't think that's a common factor, here." He looked at his brother. "Unless you've been sneaking out and doing barre classes without telling me."

"No!" yapped Dean. "Although I did hook up with this ballerina once – actually, I've hooked up with a number of ballerinas, but I remember this one, because she could..."

"So, if we could back-track from the day we found you," Sam cut in.

"Yeah?" Gary was suddenly attentive to something else besides his own life. "Did she do the leg lift thing?"

"To when you became, uh, unhot," Sam pressed.

"Ohhhhh, yeah," Dean smiled in recollection, "In fact, she put on her pointe shoes for me."

"She didn't!" gasped Gary, "She didn't! Seriously? What happened then?"

"Because that has to be the window where the curse kicked in..."

"Well, she wasn't just flexible, she had stamina."

"Oh, wow, man! How many rounds?"

"There has to be some common factor in that time frame..."

"Anyway, she actually put her foot on my shoulder, so I could kind of bend at the knees, and whoaaaaa mama.."

"You're kidding! Dude, that sounds awesome! Then what?"

"Well, just when I thought it couldn't get any better, she started to..."

"Could we just get back to trying to figure this out?" said Sam with a roll of his eyes, "Prioritise the breaking of your curse over another Chicks I Have Banged story?"

"Yeah, in a minute, Sam," Gary waved a hand vaguely, staring at Dean like an avid reader watching a favourite author give a sneak preview of an upcoming book, "I just wanna know what happened next..."

"It's irrelevant," Sam snapped, "Right now, we are working on the problem of what has cursed you both! What's more important, listening to him detailing his more depraved activities, or getting back to your old self?"

Gary looked absolutely torn, and threw a pleading look at Dean.

"Yeah, okay," sighed the thwarted storyteller, "It's okay, Gary, I'll tell you the rest later. Don't mind him, he's just like that because both of his have long since shrivelled away and he's forgotten how to do it..."

Gary looked at Sam doubtfully. "One of the guys had that problem," he said faintly, "We told him he was going too hard on the dosage, and his nuts, like, did just that, they shrivelled away, but I didn't think you looked like you were, you know..."

"What?" Sam's brain took a few moments to catch up with the implication. "No! NO! He says that all the time about me, because I don't screw around like a total man-whore!"

"It might explain how you look like you do when you live on salad," Dean pointed out.

"Hey, I get it, you do what you gotta do," Gary held up his hands in a non-judgemental gesture. "Your body, your decisions."

"And why you're always so hormonal," Dean went on, "Seriously, you don't wanna be around this guy when he's on his man-period, it's brutal."

"But it's okay," Gary's tone turned reassuring, "If you back off the dose, drop the stuff for a while, well, Dan said that his kinda grew back."

"Any advice you could give him about growin' a pair would be appreciated," Dean said solemnly.

"Although he did look a bit, uh, weird in his Speedos for a while..."

"STOP IT!" snapped Sam, giving both of them a searing Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't Believe You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!), "Just stop. Right. There. We are NOT here to hear about one of Dean's sexcapades, we are not here so that you can have a Q&A with him on his various debaucheries, and we are not here to discuss my sex life! IN addition, I do NOT use anabolic steroids, I do not WANT to use anabolic steroids, I do not NEED to use anabolic steroids, and for your information, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my balls just because I don't feel the need to stick my dick into anything with a pulse and two X chromosomes to bang together! So knock it off, and get back to work!"

Dean and Gary stared at him as, muttering to himself darkly, Sam turned his attention back to his laptop.

"Wow," whispered Gary as he and Dean went back to the diary.

"Yeah," Dean grinned, "Magnificent when he's angry, aint he? The rampaging Sasquatch."

"I heard that," Sam snapped without looking up.

"I mean, he could walk into a bar, and have his pick of women," Gary sounded somewhat confused.

"I know," Dean sighed in a deeply put-upon fashion, "But try tellin' him that."

"He's not, you know," Gary's eyebrows managed to convey his vaguely embarrassed question and subtle tinge of homophobia about Sam's preferences in a much more articulate fashion than his vocabulary could ever manage.

"Nope," Dean answered, "But there are days, Gary, there are days when I think, I really don't care, as long as he picks an informed consenting adult, he needs to get laid..."

"Knock it off, Dean."

"Maybe even an informed consenting giraffe..."

"I hate you."

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They worked for a while without recourse to Dean's Chicks I Have Banged stories, or thoughtful discussion of Sam's after-dark proclivities (or perceived lack thereof), until Gary stood up and stretched. He looked down at himself, and sighed.

"Not having any clothes fit is the worst," he grumbled, "I mean, as well as looking like a doughtnut addict, that's the worst, too. None of my pants fit me, and even my sweats are too long."

"I hear ya," Dean said forlornly, "He thinks it's funny that I'm even shorter now." He looked up at Gary, then stood up himself. "Yep, we're about the same height." He looked thoughtful for a moment. "Sam, what did the reports say about our dead guys? Stats, I mean."

"Hang on." Sam's keyboard rattled briefly. "Okay, this one, five foot nine, estimated two hundred and twenty pounds, this one... five nine, estimated at two-twenty, aaaaand..." he looked from the screen to his brother. "Same again."

"Now that's weird," Dean went back to his own laptop. "These guys are taller than that. Usin' the cars and stuff for scale, these guys were definitely taller before they were cursed with unhotness." He picked up a pen. "Gary, stand against the door frame for a minute..."

A quick check against a door frame verified that both Dean and Gary were the same height.

"Five-nine," pronounced Sam, consulting the tape measure. "Just like the dead guys. All the same height. And they were all the same weight, too: two-twenty to two-thirty." He eyed the others. "We need to get you two onto a scale, just to check..."

"No!" Gary yelped, looking down at himself, "I don't wanna know! I don't wanna know!"

"It's okay, Gary," Dean reassured him, "Let's just, uh, take it as read that we're probably about the same, two-twenty or so."

Gary let out a small keening sound.

"Why?" Sam wondered out loud. "Why are all the affected men that tall, and that weight? Why the detail? It would make the curse more complicated."

"What's the significance?" Dean wondered. "Is it some sort of code? 5-9-2-2-0, what is that? Zip code? Co-ordinates? What's so special about those numbers? Who else is five-nine, and about two-twenty?"

"Nobody, that's who," Gary supplied glumly. "Just Mr Average Joe. That's me right now. That's us."

Sam suddenly stared at him with an intensity that made Gary uncomfortable.

"Uh, Dean, what you said about your brother before," Gary stammered, "I gotta say, man, I don't, you know, swing that way..."

"Don't worry, Gary," Dean grinned and clapped Gary on the shoulder, "You see that expression? That expression means that Sam Is Working Something Out."

"Yeah?" Gary looked doubtful as Sam started tapping ferociously at the keyboard again. "Because for a moment there, he looked like he was, uh, thinking about, you know..."

"Unfortunately, for my little brother, computers pretty much are sex," Dean shook his head. "The actual computer stuff, not the porn you can get on 'em. I have no idea where I went so wrong. Take a seat," he added, "We can't know how long this might take..."

It was a few minutes before Sam sat back, a smile of grim triumph on his face, "Congratulations, Gary, you cracked it."

"I did?" Gary looked mystified.

"You did," Sam confirmed. "Mr Average Joe is, actually, five-nine and about two-twenty." He turned the screen to face them. "The average American man's stats, five-nine, two-twenty. Plus," he clicked on another window, "About half of American men have pre-diabetic pathology, and about half the men in your age bracket, Dean, find that their eyesight is deteriorating with age. You two are walking, talking, Average American Men. Just like those guys were before they died."

* * *

I have named Gary after a goat that, many years ago, used to have a thing for my mother; every time he saw her, he'd start bleating and leaping about, then he'd sit back on his haunches and wee all over his front legs to rub it on his face, which apparently is what gentleman goats to when they want to impress a lady goat. Whatever she had, it was what he was looking for. (I'm in no position to point and laugh: for many years, a Water Dragons used to do his mating display for me every morning in Spring. It made me feel special.) Mind you, it did lead to some pretty strange conversations if she was the one who took Gary his evening snack of vegetable peelings (of which he was very fond). "Where's your mother?" "Oh, she's just gone for another sexcapade with the goat, it won't take long, she'll be back in a minute."

Feed Beau-Ponty reviews, and we'll see where he goes with this. (If he starts weeing on his face for my benefit, thought, I'm abandoning this story.)


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter Eighteen**

Sam convinced Dean and Gary to head out for a walk with Jimi, telling them that it would do both their Mr Average bodies good. It was important that they avoided the fates suffered by the other de-hotted guys, who had succumbed to desperation or despair, he told them seriously – but more importantly, it got them out of his hearing; Dean had found a willing audience for his Chicks I Have Banged stories, and although he would be entirely capable of strangling them both, he would really rather not have to deal with the inconvenience of having to dispose of them afterwards.

He headed out for a run himself, letting the task run in the background, the way he had sometimes done at college, where an essay topic or assignment question could bubble away in his brain while his body did something else.

The _why_ of it, that was the key to identifying the culprit; identify the motive, and you narrowed the data set 'Evil Bastards' down to the subset of 'Evil Bastard Who Could This', then find the intersection with the subset of 'Evil Bastards Who Would Do This', and somewhere in there would be 'Evil Bastard Who Did This'.

Hot guys, turned into not hot guys. With mathematical precision. Turned from statistical outliers to data points smack bang in the middle of the bell curve, in multiple ways. Somebody had made a lot of effort to finesse the curse, not just to diminish some guy's hotness, but to make him a true statistical representative of the average. Why?

Somebody with a grudge against hot guys? Or somebody with a grudge against smartasses? Somebody who took the Deadly Sins thing seriously, and was out to punish Pride? Or if it was some religious nut, was it a crusade against casual hook-ups?

The averageness of them was somehow important; he decided he'd have to have a deeper look into how that sort of information was collected and collated, and how it was analysed.

Heading back towards their room, he made a mental note to be very careful how he phrased the explanation of what he was doing – he could probably refer to sigma values reasonably safely, but the moment he said 'variance' or 'absolute deviation', Dean's mind would head south of his belt and he'd end up wanting to poke out his own eardrums with the nearest statistical anomaly.

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Sam reached the room just as Gary and Dean were returning with Jimi. From the sound of it, the conversation hadn't flagged at all.

"...So if you're ever in Nevada, you should look her up, 'cause Mistress Amanda could teach cowboys a thing or two about ropin' a bucking bronco..."

"So, guys," Sam cut in hurriedly, not wanting to be collateral damage as Dean held forth to his apparently eager audience, "How was it?"

"Great!" beamed Gary, "Your brother is a really interestin' guy to talk to!"

"Not sure 'interesting' is the word I would've chosen," Sam muttered.

"Hey, we've been out and got the ol' large muscle groups movin', right Gary?" Dean said breezily as Gary nodded. "Flipped the foxtrot-word for Jimi, breathed the fresh sea air, got the heart rate elevated, of course, watchin' the progress of the bikini migration can help with that..."

"That's... great," Sam sighed, resigned to the fact that Dean was going to be Dean on the inside no matter what he looked like on the outside, "So, I've had an idea about your curse, I'm gonna do some more research."

"After lunch," Gary consulted his watch, "I got that covered!"

"If you have a box full of egg white alleged omelettes, I will not be happy," Dean cautioned.

"No, no, definitely not," Gary shook his head. "I promise, no omelettes."

Gary was as good as his word, fussing with the microwave, then presenting the Winchesters with their own meals.

"So, uh, what exactly is this?" asked Dean, poking suspiciously at the contents.

"Exactly what it looks like," Gary said firmly, "I promise."

Dean gave him A Look, suggesting that he could not say what he thought it looked like out loud in front of small children, maiden aunts or clergy of an unworldly disposition.

"I think it's great, Gary," Sam beamed, "You're really organised. Chicken, broccoli and carrots, brown rice, this is a balanced meal, Dean."

"The meal may be balanced," Dean muttered, "I aint so sure about the mind that thought it up."

"Sunday is food prep day," Gary told them, "I do all my meals, so I don't have to mess around with it, I can just spend time at the gym during the week."

"You certainly do give the impression that this is some sort of religious observance," Dean noted brightly.

"It's all organic, and it's steamed, absolutely no added fat," Gary assured them, reaching into the cooler again, "But, I brought these along." He brandished three bottles of brown goo, and smiled winningly. "My own secret weapon!"

Dean eyed the bottle he was given with the demeanor of a bomb technician instructor who's just been handed a practical assignment by his least promising trainee. "What exactly is this?"

Gary's tone became conspiratorial. "Well, it's not the sort of thing you'd expect," he bubbled with enthusiasm, "But I've had real success with this!"

"Yeah, but success at doing what?" Dean wondered.

"So, what's in it, Gary?" asked Sam, opening a bottle and sniffing. "Can I smell... can I smell chocolate? It smells like a chocolate thickshake."

"Okay, you guys are probably goin' to think I'm cheating, here," Gary's grin was actually shit-eating, "But give it a try! It's milk, and drinking chocolate, and some malt..."

"Awesome!" Dean twisted the top off his, and took a long swig.

"...and powdered liver."

Dean Winchester was no stranger to horrific situations: he'd seen his house burn down with his mother inside, he'd seen his baby brother die, he'd watched those he loved being possessed by demons, he'd spent forty years in Hell.

And now, he paused, bottle raised to his lips, as he realised that he'd just taken a large gulping drink of something containing liver, and had another mouthful of the stuff waiting to go down.

There was one of those moments of silent stillness in which the universe pauses, and holds its breath, waiting to see what's going to happen: it's the tense, fulminating stretch of time before the boot drops, the excruciating silence that follows a revelation of betrayal, the drawn-out moment between the closing of the switch and the detonation of the charges, the ominous stillness of the flash before the searing heat and the thunderous blast front of a nuclear device follow like a door being slammed in Hell...

"It's skim milk, and no-fat drinking chocolate, and just a pinch of malt," Gary went on breezily, blithely unaware of the fission device he'd just armed, "But mostly liver – it's serious nutrition, that stuff, at least 50% protein, lots of iron, and the macronutrients are better than supplements..."

With the sort of stoic resolve with which the Queen of England can sit through three days of folk dancing and not order anybody summarily executed, Dean swallowed the mouthful.

The moment drew out, intolerably tense, as Sam waited, wondering whether he'd just be vaporised on the spot or be torn apart when the Mach stem obliterated everything.

"That's... amazing, Gary," Dean eventually said in a calm voice, "Really? Liver?" Gary nodded eagerly. "Amazing. Because it doesn't taste like what I'd expect of something with liver in it."

"I know, right?" Gary chattered on happily as he tucked into his own lunch. "It's probably not clean enough for you guys, but I found that it helped me find just a couple more pounds, some of the guys said I should, like, sell it, or something..."

Gary left shortly after, promising to return later, and Sam hit the laptop.

"That was, uh, diplomatic of you," Sam noted carefully, "Not spitting out Gary's liver drink. I thought you were gonna spray it all over the room."

"I may not be a neat freak like you," Dean observed gloomily, "But I aint a complete asshole, either. If I'd done that, somebody would've had to clean it up. And we'd have been trapped in a room that smelled like liver for the rest of our stay here."

"Did you mean what you said?" Sam went on, "About how it didn't taste how you'd expect?"

"Oh yeah," Dean nodded, "That was one hundred percent true. It didn't taste how I'd expect."

"Because coming from you, I'd have thought..."

"It tasted even worse than I'd expect," Dean cut Sam off, slamming the bottle down in front of his brother. "Now, get Jimi's dinner bowl, and pour it in for him to drink."

"What? Why?"

"Because I'm not convinced that it's safe to tip that crap down the sink, that's why, I'd rather play it safe, and have it defused by a half-Hellhound digestion."

"No, what I meant was, I got a new angle on this case I want to check out, why can't you feed it to Jimi?"

"Because I will be busy," Dean told him shortly, getting up and heading for the bathroom.

"Doing what?" asked Sam.

"Brushing my teeth. And my mouth. And my tongue. And my tonsils. And, if I can reach, my stomach."

"There was nothing poisonous in there, you know," Sam chortled.

Dean picked up the other bottle, and banged it down at his brother's elbow. "You drink yours, then tell me it aint poisonous, bitch."

Sam eyed the contents.

"Yeah, okay, just don't use my toothpaste."

"Toothpaste? Fuck that, I'll need to use your shower wash. Maybe mixed with some gun solvent."

"You melodramatic jerk."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

While waiting for a slow page to load, Sam took a minute to download the data from Dean's activity tracker, and smiled widely.

"Dean, you've increased your distance, and your steps, again!" he enthused, "You've done ten thousand steps!"

"Well, anything to shut you up," Dean waved a hand nonchalantly.

"No, seriously, Dean, that's a great effort!" Sam continued. "That's the target that a number of health authorities suggest we should all aim for." He gave his brother a grateful smile. "I can't tell you how glad I am that you're taking this seriously – I don't want you to die before we fix this."

"That won't happen, Sammy," Dean told his baby brother firmly. "I'm too awesome for that. When I die, I will leave a devastatingly handsome corpse, I promise you that. Hell, I promise _me_ that."

By the time Gary returned, Sam was frowning at the web pages of a number of sites claiming to list various statistics about the population.

"What are you muttering about, you weirdo?" asked Dean, as he and his fellow curse target returned to the Book Of Gary.

"About what constitutes 'average'," Sam replied, not looking up. "There are different ways to define 'average', depending on what sort of information you want to get out of your sample population."

Gary looked up. "Huh?"

"Don't ask!" Dean hissed urgently. "Don't ask, Gary, don't..."

"I mean, doesn't 'average' mean the, uh, you know," Gary waved a hand uncertainly, "The, uh...average?"

"Well, yeah," Sam answered, going into what Dean recognised as lecture mode, "Generally, it means unremarkable, ordinary, but in mathematics, in statistics, in order to make a generalisation about a sample population, first you have to decide what exactly you want to get out of your calculation of the 'average'..."

"You fool!" Dean wailed dramatically, "You've doomed us both!"

"...Assuming you have a normal distribution," Sam went on, "You can get an 'average' by looking at the median, or the midpoint, or the mode, or the mean – say for example, you have a group of, oh, say, beetles, and they all have different numbers of spots, and you want to make a generalisation about the spottiness of this particular species of beetle, maybe to compare it to the general spottiness of another species from a different environment..."

Gary looked at Dean doubtfully. "He often talk like this?"

"I'm afraid so," Dean sighed glumly. "He had a nasty case of education as a kid. I blame myself – I stole him his first scientific calculator, when I should've been teaching him to steal booze."

"Median, midpoint, mode, mean," recited Gary. "Sounds like something Harry Potter would say."

"Nah, Sam would totally be Ravenclaw," Dean scoffed, "That was where the eggheads usually went. Now me, I'd be one hundred percent Griffindor."

"I always thought that 'mean' was, you know, being nasty to someone," Gary mused. "What assholes do."

Sam groaned, and let his head fall into his hands. "There are days when I don't want to live on this planet anymore," he complained. "Let's just say, there's more than one way that you could've been, uh, average-ised, and I'm trying to work out which one, and why."

"Don't really matter if you're on this end of the curse," Dean observed glumly, turning back to the screen of the other laptop. "So, Gary, where were we?"

"Uh, let's see," Gary consulted his diary, "Oh, yeah, so, it was legs and back day, so I loaded up with one of my secret weapon shakes, and look, I deadlifted an extra pound for three reps!..."

Gary's detailed documentation of himself rattled on, washing over Dean, who had three tabs open on the screen, looking at the final selfies the other presumed curse targets had taken. Something niggled at his attention...

"...So we went for a drink, I was totally pumped," Gary continued, "But not too much, because I had a cardio session the next morning, and that's a total killer with any sort of hangover, so..."

"Gary, where did you drink?" Dean was staring at the screen. "The night before you were, uh, de-hotified, where did you go? Which bar?"

Gary flipped through the dog-eared pages. "Same place as you," he answered, "Same place we played pool. Lots of hot chicks there."

"So did they." He indicated the screen, then explained what he'd spotted to Sam. "These guys all took selfies up until they were turned unhot, right? Well, look at this. All these pics were taken at the same place. Where we played pool. I recognise the décor."

Gary looked confused. "But, you'd already been, uh, de-hotted when we played," he pointed out.

"That was our second visit to that bar, Gary," Sam told him, "We went back to see if we could find anything wrong with the place."

"And we didn't, not then," Dean noted, "But we now have a connection. All these guys, plus me, plus you, they all had a drink in this bar the night before they woke up unhot." He smiled in grim triumph. "Gentlemen, we have identified ground zero."

* * *

Aaaaargh! Real Life keeps running up to me and whacking me with The Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality, and it's scaring poor little Beau-Ponty, but feed him some reviews, and we'll see if we can coax him out - now they've worked out the connection, it can only be a Chicks I Have Banged story or two until they figure this out...


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter Nineteen**

Telling Gary that they couldn't risk being seen in his company in case the culprit recognised them together and became suspicious, the Winchesters returned to the bar.

"It happened here," Dean said, looking around, "Some asshole who was here, more than once, a regular, has de-hotted hot guys."

"Doesn't narrow it down a lot," Sam observed, "This place has been busy. Specially at this time of the year. I know that when I'd sat the last exam and handed in the last assignment, all I wanted to do was drink until I couldn't tell an irregular verb from a direct object or a derivative from a distribution."

Dean looked at his brother. "I never shoulda let you go off to college," he said, "It did weird things to your brain. Although that brain was pretty weird to start with. It did weirder things to your brain. Which is a bit like saying 'made that Guido even more orange by dropping him in a vat of carrot juice', but you get what I mean."

"The point I'm making," Sam rolled his eyes, "Is that there's probably been a lot of custom here lately." He looked around. "They've got cameras; we might try the security footage, look at it on the nights that hot guys were, uh, de-hotted, as you put it, but that'll take a while."

"Great," groaned Dean, "Just what I need, hours spent in front of video footage, lookin' for someone who was here on all those nights. Can't you do your computer fu, get it to do the work?"

"Not yet," Sam smiled, "Facial recognition technology is a whole field of image analysis and takes some number crunching."

"Well, who's to say you aint the one who'll crack it?" suggested Dean. "I mean, the way your luck has been runnin' this week, finding cash, guessing passwords, winning stuff, gettin' free meals from grateful small yappy dog owners, it's like you've got the opposite of Winchester luck. You might just do it."

"No, seriously, it's a highly specialised field," Sam told him, "Even if it could work, which it doesn't yet, and even if I had the know-how, which I don't, there's not nearly enough memory to do it on the laptop. If we decide to do that, we gotta do it the old fashioned way."

"With the ol' Mark I eyeball," Dean sighed.

"Yep. Look on the bright side, bro, the whole pattern recognition thing, you do have a talent."

Dean didn't seem to think that was necessarily a good thing. "Great. I might actually start to look forward to my walks with Jimi. Hell, I might want to go out more than once in a twenty-four hour period." He looked around again. "I suggest we get a drink and think about it, see if we can't come up with something better. Or at least, less needle in a haystack. Screw that, less virgin at a hookers' convention. So go get beer, bitch."

"At once, Your Majesty," griped Sam, sliding out of his seat and heading for the bar.

The same bartender was behind it. Once again she was absorbed in her notebook, but when he approached she looked up and smiled. "Hi Sam!"

"Hey Karen," he smiled back, and nodded at her jottings, "So, how goes the Next Big Thing in bioinformatics? Decided how you'll spend your first million yet?"

She laughed. "After the, uh, 'robust discussion' I had with my supervisor yesterday, the closest I may get is offering to be a test subject for a drug trial."

He made a rueful face. "That good, huh?"

She chuckled. "It happens to everybody – you get to the stage where you can start having your own ideas and arguing with your supervisor. We were discussing the definition of 'mean', in the case of a multi-dimensional data set, where one distribution may not be normal." She gave him an unrepentant smile. "If I broke his brain, Prof will never forgive me."

"Maybe it's a good sign," Sam suggested, "Maybe having your own ideas means that you're getting ready to, uh, fly the nest, academically speaking."

"I hope so," she sighed, making some more notes. "If I can argue the case, it'll be a major part of my thesis."

"Well, it's important," Sam shrugged, "Deciding on what definition of 'mean' you're going to use is fundamental to any working on a particular data set..."

He stopped suddenly, hearing what he'd just said, and drew in a sharp breath.

 _Definition of mean. On a particular data set..._

"Sam?" she looked worried. "Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, yeah," he grimaced, and rolled his left shoulder. "It's an old injury. Sometimes I just get this stabbing pain, out of nowhere, and it usually startles the hell out of me." He made himself smile. "But I usually find that Dr Bud's analgesic solution helps."

"Amen to that," Karen grinned as he paid for the drinks, then headed back to his brother.

"I've got a lead," Sam told Dean, "I think our bartender Karen might be a suspect."

"Yeah?" Dean peered at his beer. "Why? And more importantly, is this safe to drink?"

"Beer's safe," Sam replied, "But it was the way she was talking about her research – remember how said she was doing statistics? Well, she said something else, about how the definition of 'mean' will be central to her work..." he paused, and blinked. "Oh, shit."

"What? What?"

Sam dropped his face into his hands. "Oh, God," he moaned, "It makes sense."

"What does?" demanded Dean. "Beer? Beer makes sense? Of course it does, Sammy, beer always makes sense..."

"No," Sam looked up, "Well, yeah, maybe not before breakfast, and maybe not _for_ breakfast, certainly not on cereal if there isn't any milk left, yeah, I'm looking at you, but otherwise..." he waved a hand in the direction of the bar. "Remember what Gary said earlier? When I was trying to find out how the average statistics and properties of the all-American Average Joe are calculated? How he thought that 'mean' was when you were nasty to people? She called you 'mean', when you played him at pool, after you were rude to her."

"That was part of the drunken asshole act," Dean reminded him.

"Maybe, but she didn't know that," Sam noted, "And I've seen women get brushed off by assholes before, but she thought it was funny. Said I probably could do better – but that you probably couldn't, because you were so mean. I don't think she meant that you were nasty; she meant because you were so average. You're so accurately, mathematically average."

"But I was already, uh, averaged then," Dean pointed out, "If that was revenge because she thought I was nasty, she was too late."

"That was our second trip to that bar," Sam said, "Our first visit, you went home with Miss Leggy Brunette." He fixed his brother with a level stare. "What did you say to the bartender, Dean?"

"What? Me? Nothing!" Dean yelped.

"Really?" Sam cocked an eyebrow. "A woman behind the bar, and you didn't say anything?"

"Well obviously, I had to order drinks, yeah."

"And?"

"What do you mean, 'and'?"

"What else did you say?"

"I told you, nothing!" Dean was adamant.

Sam didn't sound convinced. "So, the Living Sex God ordered drinks from a female bartender, and then didn't say anything?"

"Nope."

"Not even a half-strength Killer Smile, on general principles?"

Dean gave his baby brother the sort of look that a kindergarten teacher might wear when trying to explain to one of her more challenging charges that just because you've made a lollipop out of Play-Doh that doesn't make it edible. "Look, I was concentrating on the brunette with the rack and the legs, I wasn't gonna make eyes at a woman who wasn't, you know..."

"Adequately hot?"

"Exactly."

Sam sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Look, Dean, this could be really important, so try to remember exactly what you said."

"Okay." Dean looked thoughtful. "I ordered drinks..."

Sam waved a hand encouragingly.

"And I might've said, uh, hi, or something..."

Sam's eyebrows raised meaningfully.

"And, uh, she might've said hi, or something..."

Sam's scowled at his brother.

"And I, uh, I might've had to give her the brush-off," Dean finished lamely. "I mean, it's not like it's completely unexpected that unhot women would want to hook up with me..."

Sam continued to scowl at his brother.

"Because the Living Sex God is a hot guy, and therefore attractive to all women," Dean reasoned. "It aint unexpected that even unhot women will be interested. And while mostly they don't, occasionally one will ask..."

Sam's face threatened to turn into an actual Bitchface™.

"Okay," Dean held up his hands in a gesture of surrender, "Okay, maybe, _maybe_ I was concentrating on the brunette with the rack and the legs, and _maybe_ I didn't really pay attention to the bartender, and maybe, yeah, _maybe_ I could've been slightly more tactful..."

"Maybe you could've been marginally polite," Sam pointed out.

"I was!" Dean protested. "I was totally polite! I said 'No, thank you', and everything!"

"You said 'No thank you'?" Sam didn't sound convinced.

"Yeah!" Dean insisted.

"Those were your exact words, then? 'No, thank you'?"

"What the fuck are you, a lawyer?"

Sam unleased a full throttle _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean) on his brother, who wilted before it. "Dean, what – did – you – say?"

"Well," Dean smiled sheepishly, "She'd been scribblin' away on this pad, numbers and symbols and equations and stuff, so I said, uh, I said..."

"You said?"

"I said, uh... 'No thanks, Velma, I'm here to talk to Daphne'."

Sam gave his brother a mirthless smile. "So, she had the materials – she'd have the glasses you drank from – and you gave her the motivation."

"Huh, overreaction, much?" grumbled Dean.

"Actually, as cosmic comeuppance goes, it's kind of appropriate," Sam said. "You act like a arrogant, entitled individual who can get away with things that others can't because you scored the jackpot in the genetic lottery, and you get turned into Mr Average to experience a dose of your own medicine."

"It aint funny, Sam," growled Dean.

Sam gave him a grin. "If it wasn't for the health-threatening implications that go with it, it would be."

"No it wouldn't!"

"Yeah it would."

"Bitch," Dean griped, "So, we've ID-ed a potential perp, now we have to chase up your theory. We stake out, we tail her, we scope her place for an altar, then we come up with a plan..."

"We may be able to take a short-cut there," Sam interrupted, downing the last of his beer, "But we'll need Jimi."

"We can't bring him in here," Dean pointed out.

"We don't have to. Come on."

They returned to the car where Jimi was snoozing on the back seat, but thumped his tail when he saw them return. "Hey Jimi," Sam greeted the dog, "I need you take a look at something for me."

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. It had a phone number on it.

Jimi sniffed at the paper. Then he growled, his eyes crackling with glowing red highlights as his upper Hellteeth canines extruded.

"The nose for evil shit knows its shit," Sam concluded. "I think we can say we've identified our witch."

Dean's grim smile was predatory. "Okay, so, we follow her home, we gank her, make it look like a burglary gone wrong, job done."

"Not so fast," Sam cautioned, "This kind of a curse takes some serious mojo, plus finesse. The basic approach – work with what you've got – is also the most sensible one. So, she's got firepower, plus technique, and worst of all, she's intelligent. That makes her one dangerous opponent. Besides, just ganking her might not be enough to break the curse." Sam shook his head. "No, we need a different approach for this job."

"Such as?" prompted Dean.

Sam took a deep breath, and squared his shoulders. "I'm gonna go back in there – and proposition her."

"What?" Dean's eyes bugged. "No! No way! Absolutely not!"

"Look, somehow, we gotta find a way to get under her guard!" Sam told his brother.

"Sam, I forbid you to throw yourself at a frigging witch!" Dean snapped. "What if this happens to you, huh? What if she de-hotifies you too? Worse, what if she says yes?"

"Well, we have to break the curse for you anyway," Sam reasoned, "So it'd break mine at the same time."

"No," Dean repeated. "No, no, and no. I am NOT letting you tangle with this bitch, Sam, she's a fucking witch! For all we know, she could do worse. So forget that idea right now."

"Well, then, what do you suggest?" asked Sam in exasperation, inwardly railing at Dean's Big Brother complex.

Dean's face assumed an heroically resolute expression. "Desperate situations call for desperate measures," he intoned dramatically, "If you're right, and I caused this for myself, then you aint strollin' into the dragon's lair to try to fix it. I'll tell you what's gonna happen, Sam." He lifted his chin – had he been in his own body, women would have swooned for a radius of half a mile. "The Living Sex God is gonna walk in there, and proposition an unhot woman."

* * *

Astonished gasp! Oh, the epic heroism! It's just overflowing with epicness! Bursting with epicity! Is there no end to what Dean is willing to do to protect his baby brother?! Can the Living Sex God be given a crash course in How To Talk To Women Like You're Not The Living Sex God?! Will Sam intervene to break the curse before he actually has to do the deed with – shudder – a woman who is _not hot_?! Are we about to run out of punctuation marks?! Feed Beau-Ponty the plot bunny reviews to make him dictate the next chapter, so we can find out!1!111!one!1!


	20. Chapter 20

Kudos to the Denizens who figured out who the culprit was – the question now is, can Dean be a nice enough guy to get under her guard?

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

Dean sat behind the wheel of his Baby, the grim look of determination on his face reminiscent of a knight surveying the field before donning his helm and riding into battle.

"You should let me do it," pouted Sam.

"No." It was a flat statement of How It's Going To Be.

"Seriously, Dean, I already have a kind of connection with her, I've talked to her about her research..."

"No way," Dean growled, the Big Brother That Never Sleeps rearing its head, "There is no way, _no way_ , I will let you get that close to a witch, baby bro."

"Aren't you always telling me I need to get laid?" complained Sam.

"With hot chicks," Dean stipulated.

"Look, I'm just throwing this out there, call me nuts if you will," Sam began sourly, "But what if, and this is just theoretical you understand, what if there was actually something attractive about a woman who was not, as you put it, 'hot'?"

"That's ridiculous!" Dean snorted. "A woman who aint hot obviously aint attractive."

"What I mean," Sam treated his brother to a _Bitchface_ #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean), "Is, what if a woman was not exactly stunningly physically gorgeous to look at, but otherwise had something about her that made her attractive?"

Dean gave his brother an incredulous look. "Like what?"

"Like lots of things!" Sam yapped back, "She could have gorgeous eyes, she could have an amazing smile, she could be really interesting to talk to, she could have an interest in common with you, or she might do something really interesting..."

"Great," Dean sounded defeated, "My little brother, on the prowl for a woman who gives great mind."

"This from the man who claims to be an expert in appreciation of the female form, in all its shapes, sizes and colours," scoffed Sam.

"I am," Dean insisted, "So long as they're hot. And frisky. The frisky thing is important – frisky has to come first; hot is no good without frisky."

"News flash," Sam announced, "Frisky is a state of mind. You might need frisky to go with hot, but there are plenty of women who may not be adequately hot according to you, but are plenty frisky. Hell, I think Karen has a certain amount of frisk."

"You are not getting frisky with a damned witch!" Dean snapped.

"All right! All right!" Sam held up his hands in surrender. "All I'm saying is, she's got a certain amount of frisk. She gave me her number – she's not afraid to approach a guy she finds attractive. She knows what she wants. And can't that be kind of attractive in a woman?"

"Sure," Dean agreed, "Provided she's hot."

"I give up."

"Good. Because you aint goin' in there, pretendin' you want to get frisky with a witch. She's already whammied me – there's nothin' that she can do now that can make it worse."

Sam sighed; only Dean would ever think that, out of all the awful things a witch could do to a man, making him an averaged-out version of himself was the absolute worst fate imaginable. "Right. So, how are you going to get her attention, and hold it for long enough to pretend that you'd like to get frisky?"

Dean's expression was steely. "I will go in there – and ask her about her work."

"Ask her about..." Sam's eyebrows shot up. "Dean, you don't know anything about statistics!"

"I'd say I've gotten up about as close and personal to the concept of 'average' as it's possible to get," growled Dean.

"Look, what are you going to say? You don't know any of the terminology, and if you get to the point where she tries to explain error calculation, the first time she says 'deviation', something puerile will come out of your mouth because you won't be able to help yourself!" Sam protested.

"This won't be the first time I've had to pretend to take an interest in what a chick is studying," Dean told his brother loftily, "It don't matter if you don't know anything about it, you just ask her to explain it to you."

Sam gave him a worried look. "Dean, this woman is post-grad! If you ask her to talk about her research, you have no idea what you're letting yourself in for. These people can talk for an hour without repeating themselves, and the longer they talk, the more obscure it gets."

"Well, then, it can't be any worse than listenin' to you ramble about whatever topic of the day has taken control of your brain," Dean grinned infuriatingly.

Sam rolled his eyes and shot his big brother a Bitchface #14™ (There Are Times When Your Behaviour Is So Reckless I Wonder If You Took Lessons As A Small Child). "Fine. Just... we're right here, me and Jimi, so, call for back-up if you need to."

"Just stay out of sight until I get back," Dean instructed. "This is just the initial skirmish. Can't look too eager, or she'll get suspicious." He held out his hand as if waiting for his squire to give him his sword. "So, give me the weapon."

Sam scowled as he handed over the item sitting in his lap. "I don't know why you made me go and buy this."

"Because you're the sort of emo who'd do that sort of thing," Dean opened the door, got out, and squared his shoulders. "Now, go park and wait, bitch."

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As business wound down for the night, Karen was watching the bar for any stragglers wanting a last drink and collecting glasses while her mind mulled over the latest iteration of the most recent equation she'd been working on. She'd been doing that for a number of years now – working the bar didn't require a lot of higher intellectual input, and she was practised at doing clean-up and ruminating whilst part of her brain stayed alert for the approach of somebody wanting to buy drinks or snacks.

However, there was no cluster of neurons designated to watch for A Bunch Of Flowers Suddenly Appearing At One End Of The Bar As If Out Of Nowhere, so when a bunch of flowers suddenly appeared at one end of the bar as if out of nowhere, and she finally did notice, she jumped a bit, startled.

Her startlement became puzzlement when a face, smiling sheepishly, slowly peeked out from behind the flowers. "Uh, hi there. Karen, isn't it?"

"Yeah," she peered at him cautiously, "Who are you?"

"Oh! Sorry. I'm Dean." The man lowered the flowers further, and his smile became rueful. "I'll do a proper introduction, if you like. Hello, my name is Dean, and I'm a rude asshole."

Karen frowned as she recognised him. "Yeah, you were in here a few days ago, with the tall guy. Sam."

"Oh, that's my brother – tall, shaggy, looks like a puppy who needs a good clipping, yeah?"

Karen's expression stayed carefully shuttered, and Dean visibly drooped. "Oh, come on," he wheedled, "The first step to dealing with the problem is to realise that I'm a rude asshole, right?" He proffered the flowers. "And there's something in there about making amends."

He waggled the bouquet at her, a small hopeful smile on his face. "These are for you," he went on, "By way of an apology. For being a rude asshole." He looked contrite. "Sam told me what I said the other night, when I was playing pool."

"Nothing I haven't heard before," she shrugged.

"Yeah, well, that don't justify what I said," Dean told her. "It was an asshole thing to do. And I'm sorry. I was drunk, yeah, but that aint an excuse. You shouldn't have to put up with that from a customer. Hell, you shouldn't have to put up with that from any man. It was just thoughtless, and rude." His expression became unexpectedly vulnerable. "I really am sorry. Please accept my apology." He proffered the flowers again. "Please?"

Relenting, Karen took them. Dean looked relieved.

"Well, Dean, I have to say, I'm surprised," she told him, watching him carefully, "I've been ignored and insulted before, but I very rarely get an apology."

Dean shrugged. "Well, some of us take longer than we should to find an Assholes Anonymous meeting group," he told her.

That made her smile.

"Although that might not be such a bad thing, I mean, if every man who's an asshole started goin' off to meetings all the time, half the country might grind to a halt, but then I guess all the assholes would be at meetings every night, so women wouldn't have to date 'em, only the nice guys would be left available, so maybe that would be a good thing for women, provided the nice guys are willing to do the casual hook-up thing, which, I should tell you, my brother does not, I really need to think the implications of this Assholes Anonymous thing through more..."

That made her laugh. "Apology accepted," she told him.

He gave her a beaming smile. "Awesome! I mean, uh, I'm really glad about that." He cocked his head, and stared at her.

Karen cocked one eyebrow at him. "What?"

"Huh? Oh, sorry," Dean yelped, "I was, uh, I was lookin' at... I didn't notice before that your eyes are really blue, wow..." he dropped his gaze. "Sorry. I'm still getting a handle on the whole stop bein' an asshole thing..."

She let out a chuckle. "It's okay. Looking at eyes is okay."

He looked up again, grinning. "It is? Good! But, uh, not staring, I guess," he went on in a hurry, "It's a fine line between admiring and creeping, right?..." his eyes fell on the notepad behind the bar, and he looked puzzled. "Oh, hey, you're not sendin' coded messages to the Russians or something, are you? Tellin' em how much beer we drink so they can time an invasion to coincide with Happy Hour?"

She laughed, and shook her head. "No, that's part of my research. I'm post-grad."

Dean looked mystified. "You're researching how to make spiders crawl through ink then write Greek?"

She laughed again. "No, statistics. It does look kind of esoteric to normal people, I guess."

"Wow, I think that's the first time I've ever been called 'normal people'," commented Dean, craning his neck to look at the notepad. "How do you do research in statistics? I mean, isn't the definition of an average pretty much, uh, already worked out?"

"There's a bit more to it than that," she told him, "There's all sorts of ways you can work out an 'average', depending on what you're trying to get out of your analysis, what you want to do with that info once you have it."

"Yeah?" he leaned on the bar, and propped his chin on one hand. "So, say you've got a group of, of, I dunno, a team of football players, how many, uh, averages can you calculate if you want to work out, say, how they stack up against a different team?"...

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Sam looked up when his brother returned to their car, looking slightly shell shocked. "How did it go?"

"I think she broke my brain," Dean explained, absently patting Jimi's head. "And I've done enough nodding and smiling to keep a Steve Buscemi bobble head toy goin' for a month."

"I did warn you," Sam rolled his eyes, "If you ask her about her work, it'll open a floodgate, and you'd better have your life vest fastened."

"Yeah, well, I was washed away in a torrent of populations, calculations and deviations," sighed Dean, "But at least she smiled at me. And before you ask, I didn't say a damned thing while she explained multiple ways to define deviations."

"Good," grunted Sam, "How many did she run through, anyway?"

"I don't know!" snapped Dean, "I was too busy lookin' at her and trying to act as though I was fascinated by the colour of her eyes! Do you know how difficult that is when you're being beaten into submission by a string of equations that look like something that would scare a Spartan?"

"Well, I can prime you with some questions to ask, next time," Sam noted, "She really smiled at you?"

"Yeah. She really smiled at me. And she laughed. She even referred to me as 'normal people', at one point." Dean's face assumed an expression of wounded dignity. "Have a little faith, Sammy."

"I should, shouldn't I?" Sam agreed. "After all, it's not like you haven't played roles before as part of a Hunt. You can do FBI agent, firefighter, aircon repair tech, gym coach, teddy bear doctor, prison inmate, asylum inmate, underwear model, and who could possibly forget your stint as a relationships councellor/sex therapist..."

"I know those couples never will," Dean's eyebrows waggled in a completely Deanesque fashion.

"...So it's reasonable to assume that your acting skills can stretch to doing 'Ordinary Guy Who Is Not The Living Sex God Who's Realised That He Was A Jerk And Is Now Just Trying To Show That He's Interested In A Woman In A Civilised Way That Is Not At All Creepy Or Arrogant'," Sam finished.

"Of course they are, bitch," Dean snapped, "So, we have made first contact with the enemy. Next is the chance meeting, where I can ask her out for a coffee, or something."

"And how exactly are you going to engineer a 'chance' meeting?" asked Sam.

Dean grinned smugly. "Using the intel I have gathered in the last two days, and the most reliable weapon in my arsenal," he replied.

"Fine. Just don't take your pants off in public."

Shut up, bitch."

* * *

That 'kerthump kerthump' noise you can hear is Easter thundering towards us. Or maybe it's a plot bunny. Or, better than that, an Easter Bunny with a basket of good quality chokkies (none of that Cadbury muck, thank you very much). Oh, oh, wouldn't that be great, and Easter Plot Bunny - every time it dictated a chapter, chocolates would pop out of the CD drive! Le sigh. I can dream. Meanwhile we'll just have to encourage Beau-Ponty the old fashioned way by feeding him reviews. So, have at it.


	21. Chapter 21

I ATEN'T DEAD

I was just assaulted by Easter. And Gainful Employment. And Real Life. Yep, the ol' Unpleasantly Solid Parsnip Of Mundane Reality has been At It Again. Also I ate enough hot cross buns to put me into a sugar coma for about two months. So I may actually be dictating this via a Ouija board. Or maybe Beau-Ponty just clammed up because he saw me eating chocolate Lindt bunnies, and was worried that he might be next...

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-One**

One of the things that any university student has to learn is time management. Some of them are good at it, some of them are not. Some students try to simplify their workload by concentrating on the important activities (lab, library, drinking, gaming time) and ignoring the ones they see as non-essential (cleaning, laundry, sensible nutrition, personal hygiene). But one way or another, they have to develop a routine to get things done in the time available. Into every post grad, a little Sheldon Cooper must fall.

Karen clearly knew how to use a washing machine and was well acquainted with bathroom and toiletries, which suggested that she had a routine. And Dean had always had a particular talent for spotting patterns against the background, homing in on the signal amongst the noise, so a couple of days of covert surveillance had established that her daily movements were relatively predictable.

Which is why, as she set out on her morning coffee run, she went to the same small cafe, at the same time most days, and crossed the road at the same place...

Mind half on her work (which is the usual state of mind for post-grads), she didn't realise that there was traffic coming her way until she heard the sharp squeal of tyres and felt the looming presence of nearly two tons of Detroit steel disconcertingly close.

She let out a little shriek as she heard a voice say "Fuck!" and a door slammed. "Oh, God, are you all right?" the voice went on.

"Uh, I think so," she quavered, feeling the adrenaline spike fade as her heart attempted to slow.

"I'm so sorry, I just... Karen?"

She realised that the speaker was Dean, the man she'd spoken to at work the previous night; his face was as white as a sheet, his expression a mask of horror, as he seized her hands and gazed earnestly at her. "Oh, God, Karen, I am so sorry! I nearly hit you!"

She couldn't help herself; the tremor in his voice just made her smile.

He looked confused. "Uh, are you traumatised or something?" he asked.

"No," she shook her head, "It's just, well, you look even more scared than me!"

"I think I might be, you know." He looked forlorn, but his face changed as a car honked from behind. "Hey, knock it off!" he yelled, "There's a lady been scared half to death here!"

"I'm all right," she told him hurriedly, "Really, I just got a fright. I should probably have been watching the street, not thinking about my research..."

Dean looked indecisive, then appeared to made a decision – a look that could only be described as Daddy's Brave Little Trooper manifested on his face. "Okay. Come on." Gently but firmly, he took her elbow and ushered her towards his car. "Hop in," he told her, opening the door.

Karen hesitated. "I was just going to get coffee," she told him.

"You will have coffee," he stated firmly, "Because I am taking you to have coffee. To make it up to you. For scaring you." His face assumed the scared little boy expression she'd been so surprised to see the previous evening. "Please? If you don't need it, I sure as hell do," he confided.

She laughed out loud, and slid into shotgun.

"We're sorry, aint we, Baby?" Dean crooned as he re-started the stalled engine, patting the dash. "Oh, uh, that's my car," he explained as Karen quirked an eyebrow. "My Baby. She didn't try to kill you, her name aint Christine, that was all me." He blushed. "Uh, I mean, it was all my fault, I wasn't tryin' to hit you, Oh, God, I'm sorry, should I just shut up and drive?"

"Yes, Dean," Karen chuckled, "Just drive."

He did, as far as a small place that did really good coffee. He insisted that they sit down and have pie with it, "To settle our nerves. Or at least, to settle mine."

"I really should be getting back to the lab..." she protested, somehow feeling that she wanted him to talk her out of that.

"Hey, you've just been almost hit by a car!" Dean said, "You are allowed to take some time to recover after almost getting killed!" He thanked the waitress who brought their order to the table. "You can tell me all about it," he stated firmly.

She gave him an incredulous look. "Do you really want to hear about what I'm doing?" she asked doubtfully.

"Sure!" Dean beamed. "I know I'll never look at football the same way again after your explanations last night!" He paused. "Uh, I might not understand much of it, but you can still tell me. Hey," he smiled, "You can pretend that I'm a corporate head honcho, and you can practise explaining to me why your work will make my pharma company gazillions of dollars, so you have to tell me how it works, but do it in language that can be understood by an asshole in an expensive suit!"

"I thought you were trying not to be an asshole?" she teased.

"Well, I can just go to an Assholes Anonymous meeting, and tell 'em I had a lapse," Dean gestured dismissively, "It's all that corporate raiding, being a professional asshole all day, it's sometimes hard to just leave it all at the office, I mean, when you've sacked a hundred overworked analysts and informed your interns that they will all be paid in actual peanuts and then cancelled Christmas all before you go power-lunching to plan a way to have your drugs manufactured in a Third World country by crippled orphans, it's kind of hard just to turn that off, you know, I go home to my beach side mansion and like to relax by looking for unemployed single parents to kick..."

"Nope," she stated with a snort of laughter, "I am not working for you. Your organisation has no social conscience."

"I'll pay you real money," Dean wheedled, "Or as many interns as you can eat."

"No deal." She took a mouthful of pie. "But I can tell you what I'm working on. It's a problem of having multiple variable parameters within a population." She took a pen from a pocket, and began to draw on a napkin. "Because, for example, humans in something like a drug trial are not just a single measurement. Say you have a drug that you think will be better at controlling high blood pressure. But humans don't just have blood pressure, they have other properties that might be affected and might be important, like blood sugar, or blood lipids," she drew three curves on the napkin.

"That's not three snakes that have eaten elephants, is it?" he commented.

"No!" she laughed, "They're bell curves. They describe a distribution where most of the population, measured for a single parameter, tend to be clustered towards the mean. That's the average."

"That's what you called a normal distribution, right?" Dean interjected.

"Exactly. So, it's reasonably straightforward with a single measurement, in a normal distribution, but if you have to look at more than one distribution at a time, it gets more complicated..."

"Dean frowned at the napkin. "Okay, but what if... what if, these are people with high blood pressure, right? So, what if, to start with, they aint exactly, uh, a normal distribution?" He took the pen, and drew a skewed curve. "What if it's, like, squashed towards one end, because these people aren't exactly healthy to start with? Or," He drew two connected curves, "What if there's a group here, but there's this blip here? What then? I mean, do you start your experiments on everybody, or do you just pick out the unhealthy ones?"

Karen stared at him. "Dean," she said in an even voice, "Those are very intelligent questions."

"Oh, uh," he looked flustered. "It was just what you were sayin' about people not bein' a single thing. You know, a man is not his blood pressure. It seemed the, uh, logical next step. Um. Thank you?"

Smiling, she took the pen back. "That's exactly the sort of question that I've been working on. So, the approach I've taken is this..."

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If Dean had looked shell-shocked after his first conversation with Karen, he now looked like he was ready to take up residence in a home for the terminally bewildered.

"So, how did it go?" asked Sam anxiously.

"I think she broke my brain," Dean complained, dropping heavily onto his bed. "Seriously, how is it legal for anybody to talk like that outside of a controlled containment environment?"

"Funny," Sam smiled just a little smugly, "I've wondered the same about you and your Chicks I Have Banged stories. Speaking of which..."

Dean let out a sad moan, and fell sideways onto his bed. With a consoling whuff, Jimi moved in to begin tenderly washing his Alpha's ears. "Yeah, I got a date tonight," he sighed. "To make it up to her. For nearly killing her. Which I coulda done."

"Dean!" Sam yapped in horror, "You couldn't possibly have done that!"

"No, it woulda been easy," Dean waved a hand casually, "She really did just step of the kerb and right out in front of me, thinkin' about her deviations, I guess. I really had to stomp on the brake; a small hesitation, no jury would've convicted me..."

"I don't believe I'm hearing this!" Sam responded, "How could you think of just killing her then and there?"

"Of course I _wouldn't_ ," Dean responded indignantly, "I'm just sayin', I could have done."

"Glad to hear it," muttered Sam.

"Because I can't kill her until after we break this curse."

"Dean..."

"Then I'll happily gank her myself."

"Dean!" Sam pinched the bridge of his nose. "Can we just concentrate more on the curse breaking, and less on the ganking, just for the moment?"

"Says he who hasn't been averaged," griped Dean. "So, I'm going out to dinner tonight with Karen. I'm going to dinner with a witch. Dean Winchester is going to dinner with a frigging witch. A date with an entity who's more computer than a frigging Dalek. Cal-cu-late! Cal-cu-late! Cal-cu-late! It must be the next Apocalypse."

"So, you asked her the questions?" Sam pressed, pointedly ignoring his brother's melodramatics with a Bitchface #8™ (You Are Now Officially Talking Complete Shit, Dean)

"Yeah," humphed Dean, "And worse, she answered them. Here." He threw his phone at his little brother. "I recorded the entire sordid encounter, listen to it, write me some CliffsNotes, and think up some more things I can say, while I attempt to recover, and prepare for tonight's encounter." He sat up and made his way to the small refrigerator. "What the... Francis, I cannot drown my sorrows with this kombucha stuff!"

"Take the dog for a whiskey-word," suggested Sam, "The fresh air and the cardio will do you both good."

"Great," grumbled Dean, "Not only do I have to pretend to be infatuated with a witch, I have to do it sober. Fuck my life."

Sam's face became worried. "I'm really not happy about you doing this," he muttered.

"Neither am I," Dean replied grimly, "But desperate situations require desperate measures. We stick with the plan: I have dinner with her, I go home with her, you follow, I, uh, distract her, and you destroy her damned altar before I have to do the deed so we can undo the curse, gank her, and get the hell out."

"She's intelligent, Dean," Sam reminded her, "This will have to be one hell of an act."

"I've managed it so far," Dean growled, "And the Living Sex God still knows how to 'distract' a woman..."

"If you start talking about cars, destinations and manual shifts, I may just hurt you," Sam stated flatly.

"It's a perversion of my skills," Dean observed gloomily, "A waste, a travesty, sacrilegious, even, to be using them to show a witch a good time. Seriously, Sam, you seriously have to get that altar seriously destroyed, before things in the bedroom get, uh, serious."

"There is a real potential problem looming here," Sam's face was, well, serious, "I mean, okay, The Living Sex God knows how to show a woman a good time, sure, but, uh, that's in his usual body, and let's face it, this one has form for, um, how do I put this, uh, stalling? Missing? Running out of gas just before the finish line? Given that you'll be putting on a performance, what happens if you, er, you know..."

"It won't come to that," growled Dean, "Because you, little brother, will have immaculate timing, and you will destroy the altar before proceedings become too, uh, proceeded."

"This has to be a first," Sam grinned, "The Living Sex God actually wants me to interrupt one of his virtuoso performances." The smile fell off his face. "Of course, this means that I'm actually going to have to pay attention, whereas usually I try very hard not to hear your, uh, performance."

Dean shrugged fatalistically. "At the very least, you might learn something."

"Under the circumstances, I prefer to believe that ignorance can, sometimes, actually be bliss."

"It can also get you killed, Sammy."

"Will in this case, I'd die blissful, then."

"Where did I go wrong with you? Are you sayin' that you'd rather die than learn from the awesome talents of the Living Sex God?"

"Well, if I have to be honest about it, if I really have to answer that truthfully..."

"Yeah?"

"I'll need some time to think about it."

"Bitch."

* * *

Oh the sacrifices the Living Sex God is willing to make in the line of duty. Or at least, in the line of getting his hotness back. Will he make it through dinner? And will Sam's timing be good enough? Will Sam be able to stage an 'intervention' without throwing up? Tune in next chapter? No, seriously, Beau-Ponty, I'm not going to eat you. Unless you are made of very good quality chocolate.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

It was not an expensive place, but it was more upmarket than Karen would have allowed herself to patronise. Not that she was in the habit of dining out: between study and a couple of jobs, there wasn't time for that, and she would rather stay at home and curl up with a good equation anyway. But there was something about the way Dean had looked at her, as he insisted that it was the least he could do after nearly killing her – he looked like a cross between a Beagle who'd been caught chewing shoes and a Labrador who's just heard the w-word said aloud. So she'd agreed.

"Oh, God," she sighed slumping in her chair after they were seated, "I'm looking forward to having somebody else do the cooking."

Dean's face became concerned. "Rough day at the lab?" he asked. "The monster got hit by lightning and you've lost control of it? You tore a hole in the fabric of the space-time continuum? The super virus escaped and your colleagues have all turned into zombies? Your army of robots who are supposed to be taking over the world are all stuck doing the Macarena?"

Karen laughed. "Nothing that drastic, I'm afraid," she replied, "But one of the servers crashed overnight in the middle of the run, and I lost the test data set I was analysing. Now, I have to wait for the stoners running the IT to pull it up again from the back-up, and start again."

"That's exactly the face that Sam makes when I crash the laptop," declared Dean.

"What are you doing with it?" she asked.

"Oh. Er," his face pinked. "Promise me you won't laugh."

"I promise."

"No, really, promise me you won't laugh."

"I won't!"

"Okay. I uh," he hesitated, "I build bridges."

Karen cocked an eyebrow at him. "Bridges?"

Dean's smile was sheepish. "Yeah. There's this game, in fact, there's several of 'em, and you have to build a bridge across a gap, and you have girders, and cables, and uprights, and sometimes there's rivers, and sometimes you have to let a boat go underneath, but you have to get a truck or a train across without it collapsing, and... you're laughing!"

"No I'm not."

"Yes you are."

"I'm not!"

"Yeah you are. It's not my fault, okay? I'm addicted to it. Don't judge me, I have a disease."

"You're addicted to a bridge building game?"

With a smug expression, he took out his phone. "Let me show you. I bet you can't play the first two levels without getting hooked..."

By the time they'd finished their main course, Dean was grinning in naked triumph.

"Damn!" pouted Karen, "It collapsed again!"

"Let me see." He scooted his chair around to be next to her. "Make your triangles bigger," he instructed, "Bigger triangles give you more compressive structural strength."

"But that'll cost more, what if I go over budget?"

"What's more important, keeping some shiny-assed bean counter who's probably on the take happy about how much he can skim, or keeping your passengers safe? Make bigger triangles already! And start your bracing further down. Here, and here."

"You're really good at this," she remarked, "Did you do engineering?"

Dean's face fell. "Oh, no, I, uh, I didn't go to college. I'm Mr GED. My brother is Mr Stanford." He looked at her ruefully. "Usually, I leave talking to intelligent women to him, so I don't make a complete fool of myself."

Karen gave him a long look. "Dean, 'not college educated' and 'stupid' are not the same thing. And believe me, 'college educated' and 'plain dumb' can coexist in the same person, sometimes with spectacular consequences..."

"He makes me feel so dumb, sometimes," Dean sighed. "I mean, he's so smart, it's scary. That sort of intelligence all crammed into the one person... it can make you smart people kind of intimidating."

"You asked some really intelligent questions this morning," she reminded him, "You might not know anything about multi-dimensional statistical analysis, but you got hold of the broad concept pretty damned quickly. Not a lot of people do that."

"Well, what you're doin', it's gonna be a big thing, isn't it?" he noted. "I mean, the media keep telling us that soon, we'll have this personalised medicine, where we can all have our DNA sequenced, and that's a lot of information, and somebody's gotta work out how to turn all that into something useful, like, yeah, here's my DNA sequence, but can you use it to work out if I'll get dementia when I'm seventy, and can I do anything to stop it, or lessen it, now?"

"You're a big picture thinker," she declared, "You pull info together to find the big picture."

"Oh, er," he flushed, "Not really, I'm just a mechanic."

"Who thinks like an engineer," she told him. She paused, and gave him a hard look. "Who's trying not to be an asshole. What happened?"

"What?" Dean looked genuinely nonplussed. "What happened, when?"

"You were an asshole," she said, "What you said to me was the act of a common or garden asshole, but now, you're trying not to be. Why?"

"Huh?" Dean's mouth opened and closed a couple of times. "I, er, I..." he slumped. "Look, let's just say... several days ago, I had what I can only describe as a, uh, a life-changing event..."

She cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Look, I won't go into boring details," he continued hurriedly, "But it was, uh, it was a real eye opener, confronting, and it made me stop and think about the kind of person I was." He paused. "That person was an asshole. And yeah, I was angry, and, and, I was, like, why the hell has this happened to me, but," he looked up her earnestly, "When things like that happen, they happen for a reason, right? There's gotta be a reason, and, look, this might sound nuts, but I think, I think, uh, somehow, it was important for me to learn not to be an asshole." He paused. "And not to drink so much. Or maybe that's just Sam."

Karen laughed out loud.

"And I probably can't make it up to you for being such a dick, but, well, I thought it might be nice to try," he finished.

"You're doing quite well, actually," she noted, "For a recovering asshole."

"I am? Awesome!" Dean's beaming smile went suddenly to pink-faced sheepishness. "Uh, look, while I'm tryin' to be honest here, I should probably 'fess up something else..."

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Well," Dean swallowed, "At first, yeah, I wanted to apologise, make it up to you, and then, well, you're a really interesting person, I don't understand three quarters of what you're sayin', but what you're doing is gonna be real important, and you're smart, and you're, uh, you know your eyes really are an amazing blue, and, please don't hit me..."

"What?" Karen was watching him shrewdly.

"It's, uh, you're kindofaturn-on," Dean's voice almost squeaked.

She stared at him.

"Hey, haven't you heard?" he went on desperately. "Intelligent is the new skinny, all the cool kids are saying so!"

"They're not, you know," she informed him.

"Oh. Okay, uh, how about just one really uncool kid?" He looked as though he was wishing the floor would open up and swallow him.

Karen gave him a long, cool, calculating look. "I have one more question for you, Dean."

His expression was hunted. "Uh, yeah?"

She leaned in. "Your place, or mine?"

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In the Impala parked out of sight in the shadows, Sam watched as Dean and a smiling Karen strolled casually back to her weatherbeaten car, his big brother surreptitiously signalling that the first part of his mission was accomplished.

"Great," Sam muttered to himself, starting the engine as the other vehicle pulled out of the lot, "That's the easy part." In the back seat, Jimi whined in concern. "So, let's go save the Living Sex God from himself."

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It was a small, poky apartment, sparsely appointed but neat, clearly the home of somebody who didn't spend a lot of time there, going home to eat or change socks from time to time, but Dean has gone home with women to worse. Anyway, he wasn't usually looking at the décor on these occasions; to begin with he was only interested in getting as far as the bedroom.

He looked around quickly, gathering intel, trying to identify anything that might be a witch's altar. At the same time, he noted that the smallness of the place would mean that he might have to provide a bit more distraction, and maybe noise, so that Sam could poke around unnoticed.

Inwardly, Dean marshalled his mental energy: if he was to get back to his devastatingly handsome and awesomely hot self, his friskiness would have to be completely convincing, and his timing would have to be perfect – he had to begin the prelude to a beautiful natural act, and give Sam just enough time to break in and find the altar and destroy it ...

Smiling shyly as he followed Karen, the Living Sex God prepared himself for the most important bedroom performance of his life.

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Sam swore to himself as he surveyed the scene: the apartment was up a flight of stairs, so getting in through a window was a long shot, it would probably have to be the front door. He could see some of the layout, and noted how small the place was. He would have to be careful, and quiet.

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"Oh, my God, Karen, this bed is huge!" Dean's amazement was only partially feigned.

"I like my space in bed. But you'll find that out for yourself," Karen smiled, messing with an iPod dock on a night stand.

"It takes up nearly the whole room! How did you get it in here?"

"I have a friend who's in Physics – I got her to mess with the fabric of space-time for me."

"That's a joke, right? Or have you eggheads really found a way to..." he fell silent as music started. "Oh, er, hey, I recognise that..."

"You'll be amazed at how much music can... enhance proceedings," Karen gave him the sort of smile he hadn't hitherto seen on her face.

To his surprise, it went straight to Little Dean.

"I'm, uh, I'm not much good with classical stuff, but I'm sure I've hea- _faff_!" He peeled the blouse off his face. "Oh, er, wow, is that Victoria's Secret?"

"I may dress like Mr Spock for the lab, but underneath, I'm all Deanna Troi." She slunk towards him, shedding her pants as she went, to reach up and start unbuttoning his shirt. "And I'm betting that if you want to, you can be a great Captain Kirk..."

Several decks lower, the engine room anticipated the Captain's orders and began to run the reactor hotter than initial settings suggested would be required...

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

The run of ridiculously good luck he'd been having seemed to be holding: he could evade the security, if he disabled one of the cameras, and the lock on the entrance door was a model he was familiar with, and there was enough shadow to give him cover to let himself in. Mapping out his approach, Sam stood under the apartment, looking up and confirming that there was no way to a window...

His train of thought was momentarily derailed when his ears caught...

Music?

His eyes bugged as he recognised the piece.

Sam slid along the wall silently. Thanking his run of good luck – it was Ravel's _Boléro_ , which suggested that he had just on fifteen and a half minutes to rescue his big brother – he made a start on the entrance door lock.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

It wasn't that Dean didn't like women. Dean liked women, Dean really liked women, as in _liked_ liked women. It was just that he hadn't been expecting to _like_ like this particular woman: she was a witch, she was an unhot witch at that, and worse than being unhot to look at, she had cursed him as well as other guys to unhotness, she had turned the Living Sex God into Mr Average Joe, and Dean Winchester the Hunter would never forget and never forgive and would not rest until he had ganked her.

However, it seemed that Little Dean never got that particular memo.

"Wow," he breathed, not quite believing what he was seeing and thinking as she slid onto the bed beside him, "You're really, I mean, you are frisky..."

"You have no idea," she practically purred.

"No, what I mean," Dean continued, "What I mean is, you are really, really frisky. Seriously, I wasn't expecting you to be so, uh, wow..."

"You aint seen nothing yet," Karen smiled again, "I hope you're not shy. You're not shy are you?"

"What? No! No, shyness aint something I've ever been accused of..."

"Good. Because I like to leave the light on."

The volume of the music went up a notch.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

The second noticeable volume change kicked in as Sam let himself quietly into the apartment. He recognised it immediately as a student's place: it was cheaply furnished, and clearly not a place that somebody lived in all day. Deciding not to use his flashlight to start with, he began a systematic search.

He was scanning the second bookshelf when he winced at the noise coming from the bedroom – Dean would understand that he would need a bit of noise to cover his search, and he wouldn't put it past his brother to exaggerate the vocal aspects of his performance just to annoy his little brother, but everything hinged on Dean being able to convince Karen that he was enjoying her intimate company.

He hoped his big brother wouldn't get too carried away, because if the acting was too melodramatic he'd be caught out in a blatant charade immediately.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Dean had always prided himself – because false modesty sucked – on being able to give a great performance, in a role he had to play to work a case. And he'd had to act some pretty tough parts.

Strangely enough, this one wasn't turning out to be nearly as difficult as he'd anticipated.

"Oh... oh... OH!"

"Sorry, Dean, am I distracting you?"

"Uh, yeah, I'm uh, sorryyyyy-EEEEE! Ohhh, do that again..."

"You mean... this?"

"YeaaaaAAAAAAAH! Ohhh, playing dirty, huh?"

"I like dirty."

"Good, because so do I..."

"Oh yeah? OOOOOOhhhhh yeah, yeah, you do, ohhhhhhhhh. you do..."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam winced again as he finished rifling the cupboard – the noise level from the bedroom told him that he had to hurry if he was to save his brother from sex with a witch. He turned his attention to the table, which was cluttered with the detritus of full-time study.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Nope, not nearly as difficult as he'd anticipated. In fact, it was coming to him effortlessly...

"Ohhhh AAAAAAAH..."

"Oh no you don't, mister, keep to the tempooowhoooaaaa."

"I will...aaaaah... if you will..."

"Oh... God... ohhh, you're good at this..."

"Oh, fuck, Karen, so are youOOOOOOu, ohhhh..."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

The next volume increase in the music didn't do anything to mask the noise as Sam rifled the table's contents with increasing desperation. If he didn't find whatever Karen was using as an altar and destroy it ASAP, then Dean would have to... follow through with her. His big brother would never forgive him...

Also, the noises would haunt him forever.

Under a pile of dog-eared journal article, he found an early model laptop. That was strange; students would live in a broom closet with a milk crate for a desk and a deflated air mattress for a bed, but their hardware would always be as up to date as possible, to facilitate their work. If somebody was hanging onto an old, heavy, slow, obsolete machine, it was for a reason.

Taking out his flashlight to examine it more closely, his breath caught when he got a better look at battered casing.

Picked out in careful detail in gold was a motif of two grinning serpents, intricately entwined into a complicated S-shaped configuration. It might have looked like celtic knotwork, but it wasn't – it was Norse. Sam bared his teeth as he recognised it immediately.

It was a symbol of Loki.

They were dealing with a Lokean.

* * *

Some chocolate-covered internets to the Denizens who figured out that it was Karen, you clever people you, and some special double-dipped ones for PinkRangerV, who spotted what she was.

What is little Beau-Ponty up to? Can Sam bring himself to destroy a laptop? Will he be in time? Will Dean stay in time? Feed the plot bunny reviews, and let's find out!

Oh, and I mean it about those bridge-building programs: BridgeBuilder, PolyBridge, they are all ADDICTIVE. You have been warned.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

Sam stared at the laptop as it all suddenly made sense.

The reason he couldn't find what he would immediately recognise as a traditional 'altar' was because Karen was not a traditional 'witch'. He'd read a bit about techno-heathenry, but given how much humans – and most gods – loved tradition in their rituals, it wasn't in practice in a widespread fashion. Not yet, anyway – but for someone who dealt in information, a computer would make a strongly relevant focus of worship.

Later when he had time to think about it, he'd decide that the real question was, why hadn't the Winchesters encountered it earlier?

And she had been petitioning Loki.

Loki, the Trickster of the Norse pantheon, was by his nature a force of chaos, challenging accepted norms and conventions, allowing room for transformation out of the ensuing uproar; he would be a perfect patron for a pagan doing research in statistics, seeking to find the pattern in the huge amounts of information coming out of big data projects. And, like all Tricksters, he had a penchant for dealing out a bit of cosmic comeuppance if the whim took him.

And, like all Tricksters, one of his strongest aspects was humour. Sometimes cruel, usually educational, generally capricious, and always, to somebody – even if it was only Loki himself – very, very funny.

For example, something like granting a request to place averageness curses on shallow arrogant narcissistic hot guys to teach them a lesson about being shallow arrogant narcissistic hot guys.

And like landing Sam Winchester in a situation where he had to destroy a laptop to save his brother.

It was like asking a small child to throw away the ice-cream in order to save the candy.

It was like asking a fickriter to set fire to a motorcycle in order to save her dog.

It was like asking Donald Trump to get a buzz-cut in order to save his Twitter account.

Yeah, he'd do it. He'd cry on the inside, but he would do it, to save the thing that was most dear to him.

While still having to listen to the increasingly disturbing noises from the bedroom.

And that, that right there, _that_ was some classy assholedom.

Grimly determined, Sam took out his knife, turned the laptop over, and as quietly as he could prepared to disrupt the altar.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

When Dean Winchester referred to himself as the Living Sex God, he meant it: he was damned good in the sack. Or the spa. Or the car. Or on the sofa. Or the table. Or wherever the lady liked. Because being the Living Sex God meant ensuring that his partner had a good time too – as far as he was concerned, that was a vital part of the fun. He knew what ladies wanted. He enjoyed giving them what they wanted. And he had an unerring instinct for finding willing and frisky ladies who knew what they wanted, and who also knew what men wanted. And he had never been reticent about telling a woman that he liked it when she knew what she wanted, and also what he wanted.

(He would never admit it even to himself, but there was also the moment, the fleeting moment, in which he could feel an undeniably human connection, at a fundamental level, an involvement with another human being, as evanescent as it was, which tethered him to his own species between the hurt and horror of one job and the next, so just for an instant he was not a killer or a monster, but just a man who was wanted by a woman.)

So naturally, that all had to be part of the act – before heading out to meet Karen that night, he'd rehearsed it mentally, carefully, planning it meticulously using his Upstairs Brain to craft it into something convincing.

But somehow, it all went out the window, because his Downstairs Brain staged a shameless coup and took over, kicking his Upstairs Brain in the higher thought processes with its size fifteen hob-nailed testosterone and shouting it into submission, because the basic fact was that, she might be a witch, and she might be unhot at a first glance, but between the sheets, Karen wasn't just hot, she was _smokin_ '.

He barely recognised his own wavering voice. "Oh, God, oh, yeah..."

"Ohhhhhh, oh, Dean..."

"Ohhhhaaaaaah, God, Karen, you're, oh, oooOOOOhhhh..."

"Oh... oh... huh?" Karen suddenly stiffened.

Dean squelched a small noise of disappointment as she stilled. "What? Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"No," she hissed, "I heard a noise!"

"Ohhh, that's all me," he drawled, Killer Smile reasserting itself on his face and potential creepiness be damned, "Because you are one sexy lady..."

She resisted his efforts to resume proceedings. "Out there!" she insisted, "I heard something!"

"It's just the wind," Dean tried not to sound desperate, "In the trees, you're imagining things, let it go, let me tell you what I'm thinkin' about right now..."

"Are you sure, becaaaaaaAAAAAAAAOoooh,"

"I'm sure," Dean breathed heavily, "I'm sure, oh, God, Karen, oh, oh, oooooohhh..."

"Ohhhhh... aaaaaaaah..."

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

 _Hurry, hurry,_ Sam told himself, fumbling at the cover; from the sound of things, he was already too late to save Dean from... er, yes, well... he could only hope that his big brother's acting skills and stomach were up to the job. He cursed himself inwardly at the noise he made in his haste, _I can do this, I have to make this work..._

Will a small sob of relief, he located the battery, yanking it out, then heading for the circuitry – a machine of this vintage, if he pulled the motherboard battery, that would be the end of the hard drive...

The music and the noise from the bedroom reached a crescendo. Dean's charade was about to be discovered – he was out of time.

The cover sprang off and without any finesse at all he began frantically tearing out components.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

One thing you could say for the Living Sex God, he had perfect timing: when he was taking a lady for a long, scenic drive in his Ferarri, so to speak, he always knew exactly where she wanted to go, and exactly when they were going to arrive.

"Oh... ah... oh..."

"Oh, God, oh..."

"OooohOOOOHHHHH..."

"WHOOOOAAAAAA.. Oh, DEAN..."

"OH GOD, KAREN, OHHHHHHH, YEAH, YOU ARE SO HOT, OH, _YEEAAAAAAH_..."

There was an unfamiliar but extremely enjoyable tingling sensation that ever so momentarily distracted him, but he resumed proceedings with barely a hesitation...

"STOP!" Karen yelled, "STOP!"

" _YEEEA_ – _**WHAT?"**_

Karen briskly pushed him away, got up, and reached for her robe. "I heard something!" she snapped, heading out of the room.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

Sam sat down heavily, his knees wobbling. He'd made it. Only just, but he'd done it. He just hoped his brother would forgive him for taking so long, then cutting it so fine.

Karen came stomping angrily out of the bedroom; her face went from thunder, to surprise. "What the... Sam? It is! It's you! What the hell are you doing?!"

"It's over, Karen," Sam told her, "No more curses. What you're doing is..."

" _ **WHAT THE FUCK?"**_

Sam was interrupted by his big brother in in full fury: Dean stood before him, bristling with outrage, murder in his eyes, mayhem in his voice, the Michaelsword waxing wroth with full-on wrath-of-God righteous indignation...

"WHAT THE FUCK, SAM?" he thundered, "SERIOUSLY, WHAT THE FUCK?"

The Living Sex God, magnificent in his long-lashed, sinfully handsome, six-foot-one, chick-magnet come-hither ruin-of-angels and downfall-of-saints CFM glory glowered at his brother, his awesomeness barely attenuated by the dancing banana-patterned comforter wrapped around his waist.

Letting out a sigh of relief, Sam looked at his brother ruefully. "I'm sorry, bro," he said, "I am so sorry."

"You're SORRY?" Dean yelled, "You're SORRY? You, you, you wait until RIGHT THEN, you interrupt RIGHT THEN, and you're SORRY?"

"I was trying to be quiet," Sam explained, "And I couldn't find the altar, then I had to be quiet – I am sorry, really..."

"There are no words, Sam," Dean growled in a dangerously quiet voice, "There are no words, mere words cannot apologise for this."

Sam's eyes were filled with his crushing sense of failure. "I did the best I could, big brother," he said quietly, trying to keep the guilt of letting his brother down yet once more in one more way out of his voice, "I'm... I'm sorry..."

"Altar?" Karen sounded confused as she switched on a light, then spotted the remains of the laptop. "What the... what have you done to Geoffrey?"

"Geoffrey?" Sam looked as bewildered as she did. "Who's... you named your laptop Geoffrey?"

"He was my first laptop," she told him, "I bought him when I was in high school, with money I won at a science fair. He's too old and slow to do much these days..."

"Except be your altar," Sam's voice hardened. "For communing with your god." He turned a pleading look to Dean. "She's a techno-pagan, a Lokean," he went on, "She used a laptop as her altar, and electronics as her medium."

"A techno-pagan?" Dean paused momentarily to peer down from the lofty altitude of High Dudgeon. "I didn't think that worked – Orgle has a theory about that, and Crowley tried to explain it, something about the electrons getting so frightened that they all just jump on their megacycles and ride away..."

"She's intelligent, Dean," Sam glared at Karen. "Sooner or later somebody was going to figure it out."

"What's a Lokean?" Dean's brow creased as he considered the word. "You mean, as in, worshiping Loki?"

"The very same, bro."

"Loki? _That_ Loki? As in, _Loki_ Loki? As in..."

"Yep."

Dean's top lip, returned to its usual ridiculously attractive fulsomeness, quivered in anger. "Ohhhhh, I am gonna roast that asshole in holy oil until Colonel Sanders would compliment me on my hot wings..."

Karen picked up the disembowelled laptop. "Your brother is right, Sam, you are a smart one. You got it all figured out."

"Smart enough to stop you cursing hot guys," he shot back. "Your altar is destroyed, Karen. The cursing stops, now."

"You mean Geoffrey here?" She gave him a smile. "I only really keep him for sentimental value. You haven't 'destroyed my' altar." Her smile widened as Sam's face became confused. "Oh, you've done the equivalent of kick it over, maybe – but it certainly isn't destroyed."

"But..." Sam's face was utterly bemused. "It broke the curse. Dean is back to himself. Look, bro," he gestured at a window, where faint reflections were visible. "It worked. You're you again. The real you."

Karen waved a hand dismissively. ."Well, yeah, the hard drive is gone, and I probably won't even bother trying to reboot the poor old thing – but the content, the true substance, the _data_ , that makes it what it is, well, surely a college boy like you has heard of cloud computing? I told you, Dean, 'college educated' and 'plain dumb' can sometimes co-exist in the same person."

Sam could've kicked himself; he swore and thumped the table. "But I disrupted something," he insisted, "Dean's curse is broken..."

"Oh, he did that, all by himself," she snorted derisively.

"He did?" Sam sounded incredulous.

"I did?" so did Dean.

"Definitely." Karen smiled up at Dean. "And, if I might say so, spectacularly." She turned back to him. "But I will definitely ask for revocation of the good luck charm I solicited for you, if it hasn't already petered out. You are probably actually they nice guy you seem to be, but I'm only human, and I do have some urge to avenge Geoffrey."

"Aha! I knew it!" declared Dean, "You were having anti-Winchester luck! Or Winchester anti-luck! Or something."

Understanding dawned on Sam's face. "Ohhhh, yeah," he ground out with a scowl, "This has got 'Loki' written all over it. So, hot guy is mean to you, and so you make him, literally, mean. Average. He gets kicked right in the arrogance, with a lesson to be learned; and the curse breaker, having sex with you?"

"Oh, please," sniffed Karen disdainfully, "You think that would work? Petitioning Loki to curse someone for their arrogance, then demanding that I be the key to breaking it? That would make me as bad as the rude narcissistic assholes I wanted cursed, and any petition like that would definitely come back around to bite me." She grinned mirthlessly. "All that any of them had to do was to offer a genuine and heartfelt compliment to a woman who they previously would've been rudely dismissive of. Any 'not-hot-enough' woman would do, any age, any situation, any compliment." She nudged Dean. "Telling a woman how good she is in bed is, apparently, the most genuine and heartfelt compliment that Dean can pay."

* * *

Poor little Beau-Ponty has no reviews to nibble on - alerts or updates are probably on the fritz, but he dictated this chapter on a rumbling empty tummy. If you haven't left him a review for the previous one, don't be stingy, he's a cute little plot bunny, and you don't want to see him starve, do you?

So, the Living Sex God rescued by his own horniness - this is going to end up doing Sam's head in. His brain might head back to the Bahamas, where it enjoyed a nice holiday during _It Don't End With Blood_. Poor Sam's brain; it has a hard life.


	24. Chapter 24

Okay, so it looks like FFN has some serious bug iss-ews at the moment: notifications, reviews and emails are all screwed up. Little Beau-Ponty the plot bunny has had only a few reviews to nibble on for the last two chapters, but he's kept on dictating, the brave little poppet. Rather than wait until the problems are sorted out, I'll keep posting chapters as he dictates them; I am trusting all the Denizens, Visitors, Lurkers and Casual Droppers In of the Jimiverse to do the compassionate thing and keep a sad old review addict supplied. I post chapters, you leave a review for each one before you move on to the next one. Do we have a deal? Good. No, I don't want your soul, I know where it's been...

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty-Four**

Sam did a completely convincing goldfish impression. "Dean?" he stuttered. "Were you... I mean, are you saying that you... you were actually... you were really..."

"Ohhhh, yeah, Sam, I was really," Dean glared at his baby brother, "I was _really_ really, until your impeccable timing ruined everything."

Sam gave up on goldfish, and went for fancy koi. "But... but... but... she cursed you! You were intent on ganking her! I thought you were angry at me because I didn't interrupt early enough!"

"She's right," Dean nodded thoughtfully, "It clearly is possible for a smart guy to be incredibly dumb. And yeah, when they screw up, the results can be, for want of a better word, spectacular."

"WHAT? I was supposed to find and destroy her altar!"

"And you couldn't wait another ten seconds?"

"The plan was for me to do it as quietly, but as quickly, as possible!"

"Seriously, if you were out here and you couldn't figure out what was goin' on in there, then I have clearly taught you nothing."

"I thought it was an act!"

"I'm disappointed rather than angry, Sam."

"It was supposed to be an act! It was supposed to be just another performance for a job!"

"Oh it was a performance, Sammy, even without his own usually devastatingly hot meatsuit the Living Sex God was giving a virtuoso performance, before you interrupted with the worst possible timing."

"Dean, you told me that it was absolutely crucial that I stop you from having sex with an unhot woman!"

"Ohhhh, Sammy, this woman does _not_ count as unhot, let me tell you..."

"Stop. Stop. Right. There." Sam took a deep breath, shot his brother an eloquent _Bitchface_ #7™ (You Can Be Impossibly Unreasonable Dean, You Know That?), and visibly reined in his temper. "Just right now, I can't... I can't even." He turned back to Karen with a scowl. "So, these guys you seek to have curse, the have to learn not to be an asshole, or die," he nodded. "Hard lesson."

It was Karen's turn to look genuinely bemused. "What? There was no time limit on it, they just had to say something heartfelt to compliment a woman! Any woman! This wasn't a death curse!"

"Maybe not intentionally," Dean told her, "But some guys did die."

Sam enjoyed a small uncharitable stab of grim satisfaction at the confusion on Karen's face. "Yeah, they did," he confirmed. "Maybe that wasn't part of your curse, but it was a direct consequence: at least one was trying desperately to improve the Average Joe body you landed him with, and had a heart attack, others fell victim to the statistics of the physiological consequences of chronic pathology: liver failure confirmed in at least one case."

Karen's face became one of horrified understanding as she sat down heavily on one of the mismatched chairs. "But... I didn't want anybody to die..."

"You were petitioning a god, _Loki_ , for fuck's sake," Sam snapped. "A Trickster! Did you really think you could do that and walk away unscathed? Gods don't think the way humans do! They sure as hell don't have the same sort of moral boundaries that humans usually do. It's like a computer: it might do what you tell it, but that won't necessarily be the same thing as what you want. Stuff like this has consequences, Karen. Using the occult, there is always a cost, there are always consequences. You have to know that."

"Yeah, I do." She dropped her gaze. "At least, I thought I knew." She drew in a shaky breath. "So, I'm, I'm actually... I have some responsibility for... for..."

"I agree with you on one thing," Sam huffed in exasperated annoyance, "That 'college educated' and 'plain dumb' can sometimes co-exist in the same person. And when they screw up, it sure is pretty damned 'spectacular'."

"You wanted to teach arrogant guys a lesson about arrogance," Dean noted, "Looks like you got a lesson, too. Yup, that's Loki. God, he's such an asshole, next time I see him I'm gonna punch him in the face, then I'll Molotov him."

Karen's eyes bugged. "You've... you've _met_ Loki? I mean, okay, you're obviously Hunters, that I can figure out, but... _seriously_?"

"Yeah," Sam grimaced. "Don't be impressed. We weren't."

"He's a total dick," confirmed Dean, "In fact, he's actually a..."

"A complete jerk," Sam finished, surreptitiously kicking Dean in the ankle. "Seriously, don't go around venerating a jerk like him, it'll just encourage him."

"I won't. There won't be any more curses." Karen looked somewhat shell-shocked. "I'm... sorry. Dean, I'm sorry. I'll make one last petition for any that are still in force to be lifted, then I won't curse anybody else. I promise." She swallowed. "I, uh, that is, do you think we might avoid the whole, um, ganking thing? Only, I'm not that far off submission of my thesis now..."

"Nobody's ganking anybody," Dean cut in firmly, over-riding a squawk of surprise from Sam (who had been about to launch into his Dean Please Stop And Think About Alternatives To Ganking Here speech). "Karen, you're like a superhero – you've got something amazing, an ability that ordinary people don't have, something that sets you apart from them, above them, even. So yeah, you are, in that respect, better than them. It's okay to say that, and think that, because it's true, and false modesty sucks. But it's like they say in all those comics: with great power comes great responsibility. You gotta decide how you're gonna use it. I really hope you'll choose to be one of the good guys, and do your thang, use your talent, for the benefit of others, and just basically be a decent human being. And that includes not being a dick to other human beings, no matter how much they might deserve it. It's not for you, or me, to judge who gets cosmic comeuppance. Concentrate on just bein' the best you that you can be. All those shallow, arrogant guys will find out, one day, that their hotness is not forever, and if that's all they ever had, well, they aint gonna have anything to fall back on, and they won't be anybody, and nobody will look at 'em twice. But you'll still be somebody. And you will get the last laugh on all of 'em."

Karen gave him a wobbly little smile. "It's a bit long for a bumper sticker," she managed, "But if you can spin it out a bit, maybe you can write a self-help book."

"Nah," Dean waved a hand dismissively – then stopped, and clutched at the comforter wrapped around himself – "I'll leave the writing to the smart people. I'm a Hunter. And now I'm back to my awesome self," he smiled at his reflection in the window," I'll be right back to saving people, Hunting things..."

"It's the family business," Sam smiled at his brother.

Karen dropped her face into her hands, then looked up. "Look, I can't say that it's been a pleasure meeting you guys," she began, "Well, actually, yeah, Dean, I can say that in the end it was a definitely a pleasure meeting you..."

"I am just that awesome," the Living Sex God sighed happily.

"But... thanks. I'm not sure what I'm thanking you for, but... yeah. Thanks." She stood up. "And now, there is unfinished business to attend to."

The Killer Smile, in all its smouldering come-hither glory, slid back onto Dean's face where it was always intended to be. "Absolutely," he drawled, "So, Sam, if you'll excuse us..."

"Oh, not that!" she laughed and slapped him playfully on the arm, then became serious. "I mean, my petition to Loki to lift any remaining curses. I have to get onto that."

"Well, yeah," Dean agreed, "That's important, but..."

"Now, Geoffrey's hard drive has been wiped," Karen sounded like she was talking to herself more than anybody else, "But the data I need is all still there, it's just a case of downloading it, reinstalling it, maybe reconfiguring it for a faster OS..."

"Okay, so, do that," Dean suggested, "But you know how long data can take to download, so, while it's doin' that circling thing, maybe we can..."

"The laptop won't handle it," Karen muttered. "Not Geoffrey, my current one. She's top of the line, but not good enough for this; I'll have to use the machines in the lab..."

"Well, first thing in the morning, you can get right on that," Dean persisited, "But right now, why don't we..."

Karen brushed past him. "I have run time priority overnight," she said, "Most senior students get priority, especially getting close to submission – if I get in there now, I can start the download, it'll go quicker, I can probably have it pulled back by sunrise, then if I can get it all formatted, I'll have to write a script for that..."

"But..." Dean caught her arm. "Karen, we have unfinished business too!"

She paused, as if shaking herself out of a reverie. "Oh. Oh!" She laughed, and gave him a sheepish smile. "Sorry, guys, I was in the zone. Dean, I am so sorry," she told him, "But, I have to do this. Please don't be offended. I mean, you were great, you were, yeah, you were awesome..."

"So, take advantage while you can!" Dean practically yelped, "Because we'll be on the road tomorrow, out of town, headed for another Hunt..."

"I wish I could," Karen sounded regretful. "I really, really wish I could - and the idea of you now as you really are, whoa, you are one hot guy, Dean Winchester, but this is important. More important than what I want. I miss out on awesome sex with a really hot guy – I'll think of it as part of my penance. Making sure nobody else dies because of me is more important than me enjoying myself. No matter how much fun it clearly would be."

"But what about me?" Dean actually wailed. "I haven't almost killed anyone!"

"Well, not recently, anyway," Sam added. "Think of it as part of your penance for bein' an arrogant hot guy," he told Dean with a beaming smile.

"Come on, let's get dressed," Karen told Dean in a businesslike fashion. "We both have things to do."

"Yeah! Each other!" Dean exclaimed.

"Not tonight, bro," Sam tried to keep the amusement out of his voice. "Go on, get dressed, and we'll be on our way. Hey cheer up," he told his brother's retreating back, "You're you again!"

"Yeah, yeah, and a whole lotta good it's gonna do me tonight," Dean grumbled, heading back into the bedroom.

Karen emerged first and began to gather her things in preparation for heading back to her lab. "I want to start right away," she told Sam, handing him a key, "Here, I've got the spare. Lock up when you go and leave it in the mailbox."

"Will do," he promised. "Hey, good luck with the thesis."

She smiled over her shoulder. "Good luck to you, Sam Winchester."

"Karen..."

"Joke! Joke!" She paused, and turned. "I'm afraid that one will kind of fizzle out after a week or so by itself. Sorry."

"Figures," Sam sighed to himself, watching her hurry to her car, "Hot guys getting cursed, it's so powerful some of 'em end up dead; I get hit with good luck, and it fades away by itself. That right there is Winchester Luck. Dean!" His brother still hadn't emerged from the bedroom. "Get a move on."

"Goin' as fast as I can here, Sam," came the reply.

"Doesn't seem like it from out here," Sam consulted his watch, "What the hell are you doing in there?"

There was the briefest hesitation before Dean answered. "I, uh, I just gotta get dressed, Sam, you know, get decently covered, and, uh, you know, zipped up, soon as I can..."

Understanding bloomed in Sam's mind, and he tried hard not to laugh out loud.

"She was that good, huh?"

"Sam, this is not the time..."

"Want me to see if she's got any ice in the freezer?"

"I hate you."

* * *

Poor Dean - being mean to him is just too much fun. Leave a review before you move on to the next one. Go on, I'm watching you...


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Sam ground his teeth as he looked out the window, watching the world go by as they headed back to their room, and prayed to any deity who happened to be lurking around for patience.

"Look, I've said I was sorry, Dean."

"So am I, Sam, believe me, so am I."

"I was just following the plan we'd agreed on, bro."

"Uh-huh."

"Come on, Dean, you were the one who was so adamant that I had to prevent it!"

"And in the end, you were as preventative as a bucket of ice down the shorts. Well done you."

"Look, if I'd had any idea that you'd, uh, you know, changed your mind, I'd have waited."

"But you didn't. My clueless little brother didn't."

"What the... how was I supposed to know? What am I, psychic?"

"Well, actually..."

"Shut up. I was supposed to be saving you from a witch!"

"No, you were supposed to be helping me to save hot guys from the curse of not being able to get laid. News flash: I'm one of the hot guys. I was getting laid. God, was I getting laid..."

"For fuck's sake, Dean, I was just doing exactly what we planned! I did exactly what you told me to! I was following orders!"

"That didn't wash at Nuremberg, Sam, and it aint gonna wash with me." Dean sighed forlornly. "What you interrupted was something amazing – there's something really hot about a woman who aint afraid to enjoy herself, and say what she wants, and Karen sure knows how to enjoy herself, let me tell you..."

"Please don't," Sam begged. "Dean, please don't."

"You could learn something, Sammy," Dean insisted. "If nothing else, I'm pretty sure I learned something."

"Like how not to be an arrogant narcissistic hot guy?" prompted Sam.

"False modesty sucks, dude," Dean scoffed, "I was referring to what she did before you interrupted, when she..."

Sam let out a small keening noise, and shut his eyes. He'd always thought that Dean's Chicks I Have Banged stories were as bad as it could get. It turned out that his big brother's Chicks I Almost Finished Banging Before You Ruined Everything were pretty appalling as well.

"I thought that the pep talk you gave Karen was kind of inspired, though," he ventured, attempting to change the subject. "Use your talent for good, not evil, I wasn't actually expecting you to come up with something like that."

"Well, it was just kinda like what that cop said," Dean shrugged. "If you have a talent, a skill, an ability, hell, a personality, something that you can do well, something that's all you, well, you'll always have something beyond what the outside looks like. And Karen really does have an exceptional ability. She could use it to do a lot of good things for a lot of people."

"That's almost disturbingly mature coming from you," Sam commented. "But you're right. If she channels the sort of intellect that can get a cloud computing altar to work, what she could do by applying that ability to statistical analysis of big data, that sort of thinking could revolutionise the way that personalised medicine is..."

"I wasn't talking about that," Dean scoffed, "I was talkin' about getting laid."

"WHAT?" Sam glared at his brother with a Bitchface #1™ (Dean, I Don't _Believe_ You Just Did/Said/Ate/Punched/Shot/Had Sex With That!). "I thought you meant her obvious talent for mathematical analysis of multi-dimensional data sets!"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean waved a hand dismissively, "That could be good too, I guess, but what that woman can do it bed? She could make so many guys happy. If she could pass on that knowledge to other people, she could make the world a much better place."

Sam slumped in defeat in the face of Dean's unsquelchable libido. "Can we go get a drink?" he asked plaintively. "I need a drink."

"So do I," agreed Dean. "A drink, and a frisky lady. But not until I change out of these damned Average Joe pants, and into something more appropriate for the Living Sex God. Not that it would really be a problem, I can be awesome no matter what I'm wearing, in fact I can be at my most awesome wearing nothin'..."

"Oh, God." Sam sighed, and let his head fall back. Dean was Dean. Dean would always be Dean. No matter what life or gods or witches or fate or the random motion of the universe threw at him, no matter what happened to him, Dean would always be unmitigated unalloyed unrepentantly Dean.

And at that thought, he couldn't help but smile.

There was something else he wanted to raise with his brother, though. "I finished listening to your conversation with Karen earlier, all the way through," he mentioned casually.

"That's okay," Dean said soothingly, "I understand, listenin' to some chick spout about her research, that's practically porn for you."

"Yeah, well, I did notice something interesting." He turned to look at his brother. "You didn't actually use any of the questions I'd given you."

"Yeah, well, when an egghead is in the zone, it's hard to get a word in edgeways," Dean shrugged dismissively.

"That's not what I mean – what I meant was, the ones you did ask sounded pretty authentic," Sam went on, watching his brother. "She was right. They were intelligent questions. And expressed clearly, in plain English, which is something that academics often struggle with."

"That's because I aint an academic," muttered Dean, watching the road, "I live out in the real world."

"She really was right, you know," Sam told his brother, "Educated is not automatically the same thing as intelligent. You can be plenty intelligent without a college degree, Mr GED. You have the mind of an engineer."

"But not the pocket protector, or the glasses," Dean grinned as annoyingly and dismissively as he knew how. "I'm gonna salt and burn those damned things."

"I mean it, Dean," Sam's voice was serious. "You know how stuff works. You keep this car running, you can look at any mechanism and understand how it runs, or how it should run, you can see patterns, connections. The military would pay a damned fortune to get their hands on a mind like yours."

"Of course they would," Dean's eyebrows waggled, clearly happy to be back at home on their own face, "They could drop me in the Middle East, and I'd demoralise the terrorists into giving up because none of the ladies would want to be with 'em anymore. Believe me, there's nothing more demoralisin' about not being able to get laid. They wouldn't last a week once I arrived and the womenfolk discovered the talents of the Living Sex God, and none of 'em would dare try to gank me, because I'd make sure that they knew of my awesome housebreaking skills, and I'd put out the rumour that I knew how to get into Paradise and by the time any of thought they would get there, well, there sure wouldn't be any virgins left..."

Sam smiled as Dean outlined his One Point Plan for peace in the Middle East; somewhere, his mind speculated idly, somewhere, in an alternative history, Dean had had the chance to develop and hone his abilities, gone on to further study to give him the theory and language to describe what he could do, and maybe even how he could do it, to others. Maybe he developed the next big thing in alternatives to the internal combustion engine. Maybe he rewrote the textbooks for mechanical engineering. Maybe he was the hot-shot young professor who was forever behind with his grant applications and his faculty paperwork, but whose lab continually turned out papers and students of exceptional quality, even as he drove the rest of the academic staff nuts with his habit of putting his booted feet on the table at faculty meetings and calling bullshit on anybody who used pompous language, and he did it all with a cocky smile because his undergrad and postgrad students idolised him and he knew that if they tried to terminate him he could walk onto any campus in the country, if not overseas, and his peers would fall upon him will inarticulate little noises of intellectual gratification, and maybe if Sam went into academia rather than practising Law they'd even have ended up with tenure on the same campus, maybe even settled down like normal folks, and Dean with just one woman permanently, wouldn't that be something, and maybe even a nephew and niece for him to corrupt, but no matter how hectic their lives were and how often their careers took them apart they'd still find time to get together on weekends and sit on the car with beers and watch the stars...

Knowing his luck, though, Dean would still take those opportunities to regale him with a highlights reel from The Dean Winchester Story: Chicks I Banged Before I Got Hitched.

Yup, Sam thought, letting his brother's monologue wash over him. Dean wasn't back; Dean had never left.

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They found a bar and were getting on with the serious business of drinking when they heard a voice calling them from across the busy room. "Sam? Dean? Hey, it is you! Hi, guys!"

They turned to see that they were being hailed by Gary. Gary, in all his gym-junkie, chicken-steaming, beach-posing, broccoli-munching, shake-swilling glory. He was positively beaming as he made his way towards them.

"Wow, Karen works quick," muttered Dean. "He's back to himself again."

"It must've gone a lot more smoothly than she'd anticipated," agreed Sam, looking at his watch.

"Hi!" Gary repeated as he arrived at their table. "Hey, Dean, good to see you back to your awesome self, man!"

"Uh, you too, Gary," Dean replied, seeing that he had a woman accompanying him. "So, uh, who's this?"

"Oh, let me introduce you!" the other man enthused as his companion smiled, "Guys, this is Heidi, who I haven't seen since we were at school! Heidi, this is Dean, and this is Sam, they're awesome guys."

"Hello, Heidi," Sam and Dean shook hands politely, both of them noticing that she was not exactly the sort of hot woman that someone like Gary might gravitate to; she was, in fact, extremely average.

"Hang on, let me get drinks!" Gary said before heading for the bar.

"So," Sam began, determined to make polite conversation, "How did you two, er, meet up again?"

"Oh, it was completely random!" Heidi laughed. "I'm in town for a workshop in the Biosciences school, and when I spotted Gary in the street this afternoon, I barely recognised him!"

Sam and Dean exchanged a look. "So, he's, uh, changed since high school?"

"Oh, we both have," Gary cut in as he arrived with the drinks, "And definitely for the better. We were the two fat kids. Remember my skin? I looked like a spherical meatball in my Senior year."

"My braces is what I remember," Heidi laughed again. "Oh, do you remember my Prom dress?"

"You went to Prom together?" asked Sam.

"Yeah," Gary shrugged. "We were kind of left over when everybody else had asked everybody else, so we figured, why not? I remember that stupid sash thing I had to wear with the suit," Gary groaned. "My Mom made it, and used it as a table runner afterwards."

"My dress could've double as a tent," Heidi told them frankly. "I'm not kidding, I looked like a hot air balloon made of taffeta."

"Thankfully, we're both healthier now," Gary commented. "Seriously, Heidi, you are half the size you were back then!"

"You're certainly a lot healthier that I initially thought," Heidi observed, "When we met this afternoon, I thought you looked better than you had at school, but I didn't have my contacts in – now, you're completely buff! What do you eat, whole cattle?"

"You'd be amazed at how he cleans up with a shower and a clean shirt," Sam chirped brightly, intent on steering the conversation away from the manner in which Gary's appearance had changed from average to hot guy between lunchtime and happy hour.

"And you really don't want to know what he eats," Dean cautioned ominously.

"Well, the funny thing is, I actually do," Heidi corrected him.

"She totally does," Gary nodded eagerly, "Heidi is a professional nutritionist!"

At Sam's quizzical look, Heidi went on. "We got talking, and the conversation turned to Gary's diet..."

"Why doesn't that surprise me," muttered Dean for Sam's ears only.

"...And she made some suggestions," Gary took up the thread, "And she can explain what she means really clearly. She knows all about supplements, and isolated thingo-cyanide..."

"Isothiocyanates!" Heidi laughingly corrected him.

"Yeah, the stuff in crucified vegetables that makes them..."

"Cruciferous, Gary, cruciferous veggies!" she laughed again. "Kale, sprouts, broccoli."

"Yeah, so, this lady right here, I told her, you're a nutrition genius!" declared Gary, "And she's gonna help me tweak my diet!"

"He's actually already managed to get pretty damned close to, well, a perfectly nutritionally sound intake," Heidi told them. "I wouldn't want to eat it myself, but I think there could even be a market for those shakes. What we'll need to do is get you do brew some up, then run some assays on them – we really have to get a handle on the liver content."

"That's the secret ingredient!" insisted Gary.

"Yes, but you can have too much of it," Heidi countered earnestly. "Liver is high in Vitamin A, which is beneficial in small doses, but can lead to hypervitaminosis A, and possibly to bone pathology, malabsorption of other vitamins, even interfere with mitochondrial function, the basis of your cellular energy generation. And too much cruciferous vegetable can interfere with thyroid function..."

"Yeah, but I'm using the whole vegetable, not just juicing it," Gary pointed out, "So, I get the fibre as well, right? Makes you feel full, you don't feel you need as much?"

"Sure, but I think it would be sensible to check the sort of levels – if necessary, you can just tweak your recipe. And we need to look at your BCAAs..."

Sam and Dean sat bewildered and let the nutrition discussion go on between Gary and his newly acquired guru. As soon as they decently could, they finished their drinks and excused themselves.

"I don't think they've even noticed that we're gone," Dean noted.

"At least he found a way to break his own curse," shrugged Sam, "Apparenlty, telling a woman that she's a nutrition genius was the highest compliment that Gary could pay to any woman."

"It's always nice when two people find that they have an interest in common," Dean observed, glancing back, "Although with those two right there, having an obsession with disgusting if nutritionally sound food might just tip over into pathological."

"Well, one person's interest is another person's weird obsession," Sam told him philosophically. "Who knows, it might even be good for Gary if he learns that there's a lot more to a woman that just what she looks like on the outside."

"Speaking of women..." Sam turned to look at his brother just as the Killer Smile, back on its home territory, strutted onto Dean's face: it was aimed at a leggy blonde who was sitting at the bar, openly appreciating the physical traits of Dean v1.0.

"Yeah, yeah," Sam rolled his eyes as Dean handed over the car's key, "I know, don't worry, and don't wait up."

"That's my boy," Dean took a moment to give his little brother an infuriating grin before strolling over to the bar and leaning on it like he owned it.

Shaking his head at the inevitability of it all, Sam headed out, wondering if, now that his good luck charm had dispelled, he would still be able to find a really good documentary on the TV.

As he left, he glanced back, getting a final look at the Living Sex God in action. Dean bought the blonde woman a drink.

As he did so, he offered the female bartender, a middle-aged woman, a friendly smile and a few words that made her laugh.

Smiling to himself, he left his brother to it.

* * *

 _Thumpa, ka-thumpa, ka-thumpa_... recognise that noise? Of course, it's the sound of a plot bunny thundering towards the finish line. Gooooo Beau-Ponty! Just pause briefly and give your readers a big wistful smile and great big soulful eyes so they'll pause to leave you reviews before moving on. It would be such a shame for such a cute little bunny to starve to death before we get to the end and squelch him...


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

Sam was still on the lookout for their next job, and the aircon in their cheap and crappy room had suddenly started to function efficiently – whether this was the last gasp of Sam's good luck charm, or Dean brandishing a wrench and threatening to give it a 'reconditioning' that it would never forget, was not clear, but they were not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. The weather was fine, the beach was calling, so they decided to stay for a few days until their next Hunt turned up.

"We gotta be somewhere," Dean reasoned with a smile, "Plus, the bikini migration is in full swing!"

"Of course," Sam rolled his eyes, "So, how is the research coming along, Professor Bikini?"

"Awesome, Sam, just awesome," Dean smiled happily. "I find that I'm kinda liking it here. So is Jimi." At the mention of his name, the dog wagged his tail.

"He does love the beach." Sam tapped at his laptop, and opened another window. "You know, taking him out, you've really been getting a sensible amount of exercise while we've been here," he told Dean, "This daily cardio, it's a really good habit, bro."

"Well, it seems to make you so happy," Dean shrugged, "And the J-Man does love him a whiskey-alpha-lima-kilo, and a flip of the plastic manual-launch miniature UFO. Speaking of which," he glanced out the window, "Why don't we head out right now, huh? You wanna go for a walk, Jimi? Impress the migrating bikinis with your mad frisbee skills?"

At the mention of the w-word and the f-word out loud, Jimi leaped to his feet and began to whuff excitedly.

"We'll be back," Dean grinned as he picked up Jimi's lead, "In time for lunch. Proper lunch. With proper pieces of proper dead animal. And proper coffee."

"Yeah, yeah," Sam flapped a hand at his brother – he knew when he was on a hiding to nothing. He did worry about his big brother's health; but if daily exercise was all he could get, it was better than nothing, so he'd take what he could get.

He turned back to the laptop. Dean would probably want to sell the expensive tracker now, he thought, but the download for the last twenty-four hours had provided some decidedly weird data, so he might have to look up a factory reset for it.

After another possible lead on a job hit a contradiction, Sam sat back, rolled his shoulders, and decided to go out for a run himself. He found it a useful way to let his mind mull over a problem, and when the weather was this nice, he kind of enjoyed it. He changed, and headed out.

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While considering the fragmented intel he had to work with so far, Sam let his feet take him towards the beach. It was busy – a lot of people were keen to take advantage of sun and surf – but there was a wide pedestrian footpath, and he didn't have to slow down to dodge cyclists, dawdlers or errant children.

He turned a corner, and was just running past an ice-cream stand when he heard a familiar if somewhat muffled woof. Looking up, he saw Jimi, damp from swimming, running towards him, tail wagging and frisbee in his mouth.

Grinning, Sam left the path and strode onto the sand. "Hey, Jimi! You having fun?" By way of confirmation of fun, Jimi dropped the frisbee and stooped into a play bow, eager for another throw. "Where's Dean, then? Come on, I'll throw it, and see if you can get to it before..."

Something caught his eye.

Sam's grin turned to a scowl.

Looking along the waterline, he recognised the shape of his brother, engaged in some up close and personal research with a woman who was definitely taking part in the bikini migration; it looked as though she was putting a number into his phone.

Throwing the frisbee for the dog, he made his way towards his brother.

"Dean!" he called, following Jimi, who nabbed the frisbee out of the air and continued trotting back towards Dean. "Dean! What the hell?"

"Sammy!" Dean's smile was as bright as the sunshine as he waved goodbye to the departing young lady. "How's the running? I was just discussing the benefits of invigorating activity with Tania, who I might just meet later tonight for some beautiful natural invigorating activity after dark..."

"Don't you talk to me about activity," Sam glowered with a full power Bitchface #15™ (There Had Better Be A Good Explanation For This, Dean).

"I don't," Dean pointed out, "You're the one who keeps goin' on about it. The benefits of cardio, givin' the ol' heart and lungs a workout, all that stuff."

"You were supposed to be exercising for your own health!" Sam snapped.

"I am!" Dean protested, "Look at me, I'm outside, I'm walkin' the dog, I'm playin' frisbee with the dog..." he paused to flip the toy away again for Jimi to set off once more in gleeful pursuit, "Doin' what you're saying I should be doing."

"You are supposed to be aiming for a certain number of steps per day," Sam growled.

"Well, obviously, I had to take steps to get here," Dean sniffed disdainfully. "I didn't just, you know, levitate here. A man is not a hovercraft, Sam. I had to walk."

"I thought you agreed to use the tracker to monitor your progress!"

"I did!" Dean said, "And I've been using it whenever I take Jimi out."

"Dean, _putting the activity tracker on the dog does not constitute 'using it'!"_

"Yeah it does," Dean countered as Jimi returned, "And he don't mind."

"I don't believe this," Sam muttered, bending to pat Jimi as he returned with his frisbee before removing the device and brandishing it at his brother like a teacher finding a packet of forbidden gum in class, "What the hell was it supposed to achieve? Did you think that you could somehow derive benefit from Jimi's activity, by, by, what, some sort of cardiopulmonary osmosis?"

"It stopped you whining," Dean answered with brutal frankness and a beaming smile, "And that right there was a win, as far as I was concerned."

Sam gave his brother a searing Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "If you're not going to use it properly, we might as well sell it," he pronounced. "Of course we'll have to clean it up, after it's been used on a _dog_ , for fuck's sake – this might explain the weird readout from last night, it was never meant to be used by a dog chasing a frisbee at the beach..."

"Weird readout?" queried Dean.

"Yeah," Sam went on, "In the middle of the night. I'll have to do a reset on it, but that shouldn't be... what?"

His brother's grin went from annoying to shit-eating at the speed of Dean.

"Well, you know that last night the Living Sex God went out with a frisky lady who'd be up for some beautiful natural acts..."

"Yeah, wasn't that a surprise," Sam noted.

"Well, it turned out, she was a fitness instructor, does personal training," Dean's eyebrows were clearly warming to their theme, "And she encourages her clients to use a tracker, if they can."

"Well, yeah, a lot of people find 'em useful," Sam commented.

"So, she'd noticed mine, and told me to bring it along," Dean continued.

Sam looked confused. "What for? You ditch it as soon as you can when you come back from your walk – there's absolutely no other activity in your data, except for when you're walking the dog, you never wear it at night, and..." realisation dawned. "Oh, God, you're kidding..."

"Anyway, she was a frisky lady all right," Dean pressed on gleefully, "And as to tracking performance, well, it doesn't know what sort of 'performance' it's tracking."

"So you..." Sam's face became a mask of distaste. "Was this a thing for her? This woman had a thing about trackers?"

"Ohhhh, it was a thing, Sammy," Dean's eyebrows confirmed gymnastically, "It was definitely a thing."

"Okaaaaay, well," Sam paused, "Informed consenting adults, some people like to play adult dress-ups, so I don't suppose it's so strange that somewhere out there was a woman who has a thing for a man wearing nothing but a tracker around one wrist..."

His voice stuttered to a halt as Dean paused for maximum effect while his grin went all the way up to _Gotcha Sammy!_

"Not wrist, Sammy, not wrist..."

Sam's eyes bugged.

"...Definitely a thing," Dean finished.

Sam shrieked and dropped the tracker like it had just bitten him.

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A woman who was walking her dog called the job in: two men, in their thirties, on the beach were having what looked like a wrestling match. The taller one was shouting angrily and threatening to strangle the other, while the other one was laughing hysterically, and a really adorable dog woofing encouragement to both parties and trying to drop a frisbee into the middle of the contest.

She wasn't sure why they were fighting, but from what she could hear she believed that it was an argument over an activity tracker.

Whatever it was, by the time a cruiser swung by, they'd dusted themselves down and walked off along the beach together, taking turns to flip the frisbee for the dog.

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"I'm sorry, Sam."

"No you're not."

"I am!"

"No you're not. You enjoyed doing... _that_ , and then you enjoyed freaking me out."

"Well, yeah, but I'm apologising for enjoying it."

"You're disgusting."

"Look, you can have the money from the tracker, okay? As soon as we sell it."

"After we disinfect it. God, I don't believe you'd put a tracker around your..."

"Don't knock it until you've tried it, bro."

"Shut up, jerk! You're gross!"

"Sticks and stones, Sammy, sticks and stones. Anyway, where are we headed?"

"Some place I want to go to have a good time."

"Oh, God, it's not a library, is it?"

"No."

"Museum? Some fascinating collection of seventeenth century lint?"

"No."

"A gallery? Paintings that have been done by a one-armed cross-eyed disabled autistic gay black orangutan, or something? 'This one is called _Profit From People Who Have Too Much Money_ , and Twinkles is hoping to sell it for enough to buy a whole bunch of bananas and maybe a less embarrassing name'..."

"No!"

"Where, then?"

"Somewhere outdoors. And don't worry, there will be bikinis for you to monitor."

"That's my boy."

When Dean saw where they were headed, he laughed out loud. "I had no idea, dude!"

"For fuck's sake, I spent four years in California," Sam shot back as he pulled his shirt off over his head. "So, are you in?"

"Absolutely," Dean grinned, pulling off his sweats to reveal board shorts, "Somebody's gotta keep an eye on you out there. Show you how it's done.

"Ha! Big brother, prepare to have your ass handed to you on a plate."

Trash talking each other all the way to the beach, they headed for the rental shack.

Sam was right, though. It was a hell of a lot of fun.

And if he was honest, yeah, Dean had to concede; Sam was definitely the better surfer.

 **THE END – ALMOST...**

* * *

We'll just pause here for a moment for the more depraved beldames amongst the Denizens to think about watching the brothers Winchester surfing.

...

Okay, now you can leave your reviews and move on to the last chapter. Go on, write something, I'll sulk if you don't.


	27. Chapter The Last

If you haven't been reviewing as you go, please do so before proceeding: we want Beau-Ponty the plot bunny nice and fat so we can squelch him properly at the end of the story

* * *

 **Chapter The Last**

It had been nice to have a bit of a vacation, she thought; the opportunity for a break had arisen suddenly, without notice, and she had enjoyed the time off, but now she knew that it was time to get back to work.

She didn't really mind, of course – she'd been on the job for more than twenty years, and although the work was taxing, she found it challenging, gratifying, engaging, and all the other words that anybody could possibly want in a career. The demanding nature of her position had seen her gain enormous expertise, and she was recognised as an expert in her field by her peers. She was, if she thought about it, on the whole satisfied with her lot in life.

So, with that happy thought, Twinklepout, Senior Principal Fanservice Fairy (FF PhD), took wing.

 **...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **... ...** **oooooOOOOOooooo** **...**

She found the Winchesters' room with an unerring instinct that made the globe-circling Wandering Albatross look like a clueless tourist with a faulty satnav, and alighted gently on the salted window sill. The dog Jimi, dozing on his blanket, gave her a doggy grin and a brief wag of his tail – he'd known Twinklepout the Fanservice Fairy for his whole life, and recognised her as a fellow creature not entirely of this world who was on his Alpha's side, even if Dean would never know it.

As she descended, she saw her colleague waiting for her on the table. He gave her a big smile, and greeted her with a complicated flourish of his little baseball cap. "So, there you are, you dirty stop-out," he tutted in mock disdain, "Where you been, then?"

"As it happens, I spent some time at a dermatologist's practice," she told him. "Gave some acne patients a bit of a help-along."

"I thought you was supposed to be on 'oliday," her companion noted, picking up a small teapot. "Tea up. You look a bit tired, love."

"Oh, lovely, thanks, no sugar for me," Twinklepout replied. "So, been keeping busy?"

"As always," he replied. "Although there are days when I wonder why I bother, I mean, I have to agree wif 'is brother on this one, the boy needs to go out and get a bit of rumpy-pumpy..."

Twinklepout slapped him on the arm. "Flexo Abtastic, you are quite possibly the most lecherous Buff Gnome I have ever met," she chided him fondly.

"Well, goes with the territory, dunnit?" Flexo shrugged philosophically. "He's got me here, makin' sure he looks like that at all times, despite 'is fondness for rabbit food, and not 'avin' time to set foot in a gym, and what does the boy do? Watch Davy bloody Attenborough gettin' all excited about bloody ants! Bury 'is nose in a bleeding book! Visit the historic quarter of a city, and walk straight past the red light district so he can go and admire the bleeding architecture! You got no idea how 'ard it is to keep those pecs in shape, and I speak as someone who's damned good at pecs, did post-grad in pecs, I did, got a Distinction for 'em, too, youngsters today are all wound up about abs and arses, but I tell you, anybody can do abs, it's all in the body composition, innit, a bloody third year undergrad can do abs, but pecs, they take serious professional mojo..."

Twinklepout smiled to herself: Flexo Abtastic the Buff Gnome was at his happiest when he was grumbling good-naturedly about his client. The time he'd had twelve months off on sabbatical after that unfortunate business with Sam's soullessness (during which he'd held a visiting professorship that mostly seemed to consist of berating undergraduate Buff Gnomes with lectures that began with the sentence 'When I was your age'), while Sam's body had gone about maintaining its own physique, he'd been thoroughly miserable. Like Twinklepout, he wouldn't give up his job for the world.

"I did actually take some time off," she assured her colleague. "Did a bit of sight-seeing. Went to Hawaii, since I'm never going to be able to go on work time, not until Dean gets over his morbid fear of flying. Spectacular geography, those islands. Saw the lava fountains. Pele and Poliahu are having one of their sisterly spats again." She sipped at her tea, and sighed in satisfaction. "You do make a good cup of tea, Flexo."

"All part of the service. Biscuit?" He proffered a small plate of cookies.

"Oh, yes, please," Twinklepout took one. "So, the curse has been dispelled?"

"Yep," Flexo replied. "Case solved, curse lifted, back to work for you, slave." He grinned. "I heard something on the grape vine you won't believe, though."

Twinklepout cocked an eyebrow eloquently.

"You know Baldie McPlukkit?"

"Of course I do," she replied, "What about him?"

"Well, he's takin' on an apprentice!" declared Flexo.

"Really?" Twinklepout's eyes widened. "Oh, that's wonderful! The Faculty have only been asking him for, what, a couple of decades now..."

"Well, he's finally agreed," Flexo grinned again, "Although traditionally it's not usual for a _bauchan_ to take on an offsider, well, these days, it's about succession planning, innit? We don't want that much corporate knowledge to go missing when he retires."

"I sometimes wonder if he'll ever retire," Twinklepout chuckled, "He has such fun with Crowley's hairline."

"You do know that he once went and tried to yank a handful out of Bobby Singer's head?" confided Flexo.

Twinklepout looked astonished. "He didn't!"

"Stupid old bugger did it on a dare," Flexo rolled his eyes. "Spent a week hidin' inside a hat, finally got put onto the head, and the next thing, he finds himself in a jam jar, bein' called an idiot, or somesuch."

"I never knew that!" gasped Twinklepout. "What happened?"

"Well, it's something that the Faculty want to keep quiet, innit?" Flexo pointed out. "A senior employee gettin' himself spotted by a human? Spotted and caught? His clan would never live it down. Anyway, as it turned out, Baldie just said 'It's a fair cop', and 'fessed up to the old man. Told 'im 'is day job was Senior Hair Thinning Peck, and 'is client was the King of Hell, and Old Man Singer laughed, and let 'im go."

Twinklepout giggled, and sipped at her tea, helping herself to another cookie. "The thought of the next Baldie being let loose on the world will keep me warm at night." She ran an expert eye over Dean. "Good heavens, what has the boy been eating? Or not eating? His aorta is practically purring!"

"If I told you, you wouldn't believe me," Flexo rolled his eyes. "But don't worry, now his curse is broken, he's back to his usual ways, defendin' humanity, one cheeseburger at a time. You'll 'aver yer hands full again in no time." He smiled fondly at Dean, who mumbled in his sleep and turned over. "Nope, if it weren't for you, young Master Winchester the Elder there would look a lot more like 'is cursed self than 'e would care to think. A lot more spherical, for a start."

"It's all in the hepatics," Twinklepout told him, "Mostly, when Fanservice Fairies sign on, they think it's all about keeping the outside looking good, and that's important, but you have to keep the whole system tweaked, not just the externals – if the internal systems aren't in top shape, you'll never get the outside looking fanserviceable, because there's no support system to keep it that way. Like trying to put up a building without foundations."

Flexo nodded in agreement: Twinklepout had published several papers on occult hepatocyte enhancement and functional engineering in prestigious paranormal journals, and was recognised as an expert in the field. "Definitely. Try tellin' that to students though, it's only the ones who make it past third year who figure that out. Saints preserve us from Freshmen, they're all fixated on biceps, and arses. Seriously, a man is not his arse."

"You did quite well with that one, though," Twinklepout nodded at Sam, who was snoring gently. "Very good workmanship. Very buff."

"It's the dimples that I think finish the whole package," Flexo hummed thoughtfully. "Attention to detail, that's what kids need to learn."

"The ones in the ass?"

"Well, I meant the ones in his face cheeks," Flexo told her, "But the ones above his arse do also seem to be very well received. When he can be bothered flashin' it in front of a lady friend."

"He's just not wired the same way as his brother, that's all," Twinklepout opined. "There's nothing anybody can do about that."

"Yeah, but, yeah, but, the point _is_ , the boy don't know what he's got," complained Flexo. "I mean, if I looked like that, I'd be chasin' around after every piece of tail within a mile radius..."

Dean snuffled into his pillow, and Twinklepout frowned, casting a professional eye over her client. "Oh dear," she sighed, "He decided to celebrate the breaking of the curse with alcohol, didn't he?"

"They both did," explained Flexo, "And as for what he ate just before bedtime, well, he don't know how lucky he is to have the best in the business as his case worker."

"That goes for both of them," she smiled fondly at Flexo.

"Finish your tea," he told her, lifting his own mug, "They aint goin' anywhere. 'Ere, 'ave another biscuit. You're gunna need it, tonight."

The most highly qualified Fanservice Fairy and Buff Gnome in the Jimiverse finished their tea and cookies, then set about their nightly duties, spinning their small but potent spells to keep Dean and Sam Winchester looking like Dean and Sam Winchester.

Jimi the half-Hellhound watched the proceedings for a few minutes, then went back to sleep, confident that his Alpha and his Second were in safe hands.

 **THE END. REALLY.**

* * *

Wait for it... wait for it... wait for it... aaaaaaand...

 _SQUELCH_

And so we squelch another plot bunny and say goodbye to little Beauregard Pontificus, aka Beau-Ponty. He did a marvellous job of finishing this story on an empty stomach, but he has not gone to A Better Place, where there are nice juicy reviews for him to nibble on for the rest of eternity. That's it for now, though, I'm afraid - the plot bunny pen is empty. I might backtrack a bit and see if I can wring any missing deleted scenes out of plot bunnies past, or there may be some material in a series of one-shots from HELL-TV's depiction of alternative histories. Until then, send reviews - I'll make them into a nice bouquet to leave on little Beau-Ponty's commemorative plaque.


End file.
